


Best Friends

by ParabolicHamartia



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Betrayal, Ecco Background, Fix-It, Friends to Enemies, Friendship, Gen, Insanity, Jeremiah Backstory, Jeremiah Goes Insane Slowly, Jeremiah is Not That Innocent, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Post-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska, Pre-Laughing Toxin Jeremiah Valeska, Soft Jeremiah Valeska, Young Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 15:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 80,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18607330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParabolicHamartia/pseuds/ParabolicHamartia
Summary: Bruce believes he might have found a friend in the reclusive Jeremiah Valeska. He is determined to help Jeremiah finish his project, but certain aspects of Jeremiah's personality seem rather sinister and bring into question the entire friendship and Jeremiah's sanity.





	1. That Fateful Day

**Author's Note:**

> This story is crossposted on FFN. I'm new to A03; so tags, format, ect. might be a little weird until I completely figure it out. When I update for new chapters, it will probably be on FFN first then I'll get around to posting it here. Feedback is encouraged. If you have any ideas for tags, please let me know. Thank you for reading!

1\. That Fateful Day

Bruce kept a resolute gaze fixed on the back of the police car driver seat. Very little was said between the passengers; the ever-present tension seemed to bar any dialogue beyond quick instructions. Gordon was busy coordinating over the phone while Lucius skillfully checked and rechecked the signal disruptor. Both were absorbed by their tasks leaving the two passengers in the back to stew in their own thoughts. Bruce's attention was finally drawn to the passenger next to him. Jeremiah Valeska was drumming his fingers nervously on his thighs. Perspiration appeared on his glasses; he removed them and carefully wiped them clean with a pocket square from his dark purple suit.

A twinge of guilt ran through Bruce. He'd convinced Jeremiah to come with them. It was for a greater cause, but the task asked of both of them was a deadly one. Bruce was at peace with anything happening to him; he'd said as much. As much as people like Alfred, Gordon, Lucius, or Selena might object, he felt a duty to stop Jerome in any way he could. After all, Jerome had set up the entire trap just for him and the man sitting next to him. Still, asking for the same resolute will from someone who wanted nothing to do with the operation felt wrong.

"I'm sorry if I unsettle you," Bruce snapped out of his thoughts; he'd realized he had been staring at Jeremiah as he thought. "I've often lamented that I share any resemblance to that psychopath."

"No, it's not that, Mr. Valeska."

It was a half-truth.

Seeing the same features of the man who'd haunted his childhood dreams was enough to set him on edge. It was petty, he knew, but also something unconscious that was hard to break. However, with Jeremiah, it didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. When he'd heard of a sibling—an identical twin no less—to the notorious psycho-terrorist, he'd imagined someone like Jerome's uncle, an equally disturbed individual. However, when he met the spectacled, recluse engineer with a clammy handshake, he was pleasantly surprised. A few inspiring words and a compliment later and Jeremiah was stirred to confront his brother. That, and a stiff drink.

"It's fine," Jeremiah shook his head. "I've read about the things my brother has done. The terror he's inflicted on you and everyone in Gotham." He looked out the window. "I've known about it for years now. I should have done something sooner, not waited until he decided to come after me."

"I'm sure there was nothing that you could have done," Bruce reassured him.

Jeremiah shook his head, "There were things I could have done. Things I  _should_  have done." He left it vague, like he was affirming that to himself rather than being concerned whether Bruce understood. "I apologize profusely for your abduction into his schemes."

Bruce was quite for a moment, the apology seemed to stem from nerves and dismissing it would not help the situation. Jeremiah became progressively more anxious as they neared their destination. Bruce decided to alleviate Jeremiah's stress quickly. The last thing they needed was Jeremiah to run and give Jerome an excuse to kill more people. Bruce chose to distract him the same way he had in the bunker.

"The battery," Jeremiah looked at Bruce as he said this. "How many have you made?"

Jeremiah scoffed bitterly, "It seems irrelevant to talk about it when I'm probably not going to be around to build anymore." Having gotten his pessimistic thought out, he focused on the question, "Just the one. It's a prototype at best. Haven't done all my tests on it yet for it to be functional. Even if I did, I doubt I would have the man power to mass produce. So, it would be a novelty for the rich at best."

"That's where Wayne Enterprises could help," Bruce saw a light appear behind Jeremiah's eyes. "If I could get you the funding and factory space, do you think you could make more of them after the prototype is finalized?" Bruce added, "Think of the world-changing prospect of your work mass produced. The humanitarian value alone would be astronomical."

Jeremiah was stunned for a moment, "Given a week or two, I could have the prototype finished and the plans sent into Wayne Enterprises. Yes! That could work!" Jeremiah paused, taking it in. "You do have a penchant for inspiring speeches, Mr. Wayne. Planning on going into politics?"

It was a half-hearted joke, but Bruce was glad he could make Jeremiah forget the situation for a moment.

"Just doing what my parents would have if they were in my place," Bruce said. "And, you can just call me Bruce."

"Bruce," Jeremiah nodded with a small smile.

The tension started to creep back in again, but Jeremiah seemed slightly less anxious. The wheels of thought were turning in his head as he looked out the window. They started to pass police officers and barricades as they approached the destination. Jeremiah wiped his glasses again, and Lucius went over the plan again with them both. Lucius finished, and the last few moments before they arrived were left in that cursed tense silence.

"I'm sorry this had to happen on your birthday," Jeremiah said very suddenly.

Bruce blinked, taken aback by the sudden statement, "How did you kno—"

"We're here," Gordon announced abruptly as the police car stopped; all thoughts dashed from Bruce's mind.

Bruce just turned front and nodded at the reflection of Gordon in the rearview mirror. Jeremiah let out a shaky breath and clenched his fists to collect himself. The door to Jeremiah's side opened, and he stepped out. Bruce found himself taking a similar moment and preparing himself. He needed to be calm, be ready for anything, for his sake and everyone else. He grabbed the door handle and stepped out into the cold February evening.

* * *

There Jerome was: dead.

The haunting shadow that had loomed over Bruce was finally gone, a smile on his face. Bruce oversaw the corpse from a distance, but the beady, lifeless eyes seemed to somehow stand out in the darkness, as if still tracking him. Bruce had unfortunately seen many corpses over his life, but this was the first time he'd seen the same man's corpse. Jim and Bullock quickly dispersed the crowd of poking and prodding civilians. Among the disbanding group, Bruce caught sight of the blue-gray overcoat of Jeremiah.

Bruce felt relief. He'd lost track of Jeremiah in the chaos of the evening. Bruce had been caught up in untying the mayor and what was left of Jerome's hostages. He'd completely forgotten about Jeremiah, and, when he turned back around, Jeremiah had seemingly vanished. Bruce hadn't blamed him for running, but Jeremiah's reappearance surprised him.

Jeremiah stared for many moments at the corpse of his brother mangled by the top of the car. Bruce watched as a quick burst of emotion ran through Jeremiah's expression. A glimmer of happiness quickly snuffed out by anger and sadness. He furrowed his brow, lowered his head, sniffled, and strode past the corpse. Gordon and Bullock didn't speak as Jeremiah left, leaving a space for Jeremiah to be alone.

As Jeremiah brushed past, Bruce had an epiphany. No matter how much they'd hated each other, no matter their psychological differences or the years of distance, Jeremiah just lost his brother. He was in pain but crying over a lunatic was something Jeremiah felt that he could not indulge. At least when Bruce lost his parents, there were people who mourned with him. Jeremiah had no one. No one would mourn Jerome except for his cult, and that wasn't sufficient company. Bruce felt compelled to do something, but hardly knowing the man left a distance that he couldn't cross. So he went to the next best thing.

"Mr. Valeska," Bruce found himself saying. The red head turned to face him. Bruce continued cautiously, "I meant what I said. Let Wayne Enterprises fund your work with a grant."

For a brief moment, his eyes lit up with hope again. Then he cooled to a somber expression and took Bruce's hand, "Thank you."

With that, he trudged down the street, wrapping his jacket around him, and promptly disappeared into the night.


	2. A Visit

2\. A Visit

"Master Bruce, are you sure?" Alfred ran the blade down the apple, creating a spiral of apple peels.

"Of course, Alfred," Bruce pulled on a coat as he grabbed the keys to his car off the kitchen counter. "Jeremiah is not his brother. Besides, checking on my investment would be in the best interest of the board. I can call if there is any trouble."

"That's reassuring," Alfred said with his famous sarcasm. "Keep me on the sidelines worrying about your safety until I hear that fateful call."

"It's not like that."

"I'm quite sure," Alfred sighed, "I'll trust your judgment. Just be careful, for my sake. My old heart can only take so much excitement after the other day's event."

Bruce playfully scoffed; the words "old" and "Alfred" just never seemed to fit together.

Alfred continued to chop the apples into slices, "Just out of curiosity, how long do you plan to stay there?"

"A couple of hours; if you're that worried, I've written the address on the fridge. It's more of a bunker than a house."

Alfred shook his head, "Just use your head alright? You get any hostile vibes from him: you get out of there and you call me. You understand?"

"Promise," Bruce said as he nodded goodbye and slipped out the door.

* * *

Bruce couldn't help but feel dumbfounded at the scope of the labyrinth that Jeremiah had built as his home. He'd been through it once, but the second time gave him an appreciation for its construction. Even with the escort from his assistant, Ecco, disorientation seemed to emanate from it's very walls, making him lose his sense of direction.

"This labyrinth is amazing," Bruce muttered to himself.

"Yes, it is," Ecco said suddenly. "Jeremiah had to lead me through it thirteen times before the path finally stuck in my head. The masterful way it confuses even a trained eye is the hallmark of true genius."

Bruce was a little stunned. She had hardly spoken at all the first time they'd met, and the few words she did speak were emotionless, robotic. Now, she talked with affection about Jeremiah's work quite in contrast with her agent appearance.

"Such genius is admirable," Bruce said. "I suspect it extends into his other work."

"Indeed," Ecco continued. "As much as Jeremiah has an affinity for architecture, his true passion lies in the devices he creates. They are like a maze for him, and they are just as ingeniously constructed as this one."

They finally came to the end of the labyrinth and a single door. Ecco opened the door to Jeremiah's work space and gestured for Bruce to step inside. He nodded his thanks and entered the workshop. Jeremiah was waiting inside. He awkwardly straightened his attire: the same dark blue-purple shirt and tie from two days ago. Over it, he wore a dark carroty colored suit. The odd color scheme seemed to be a purposeful quirk. Bruce wondered if it was by choice or if Jeremiah was colorblind.

"Mr. Valeska," Bruce greeted.

"Jeremiah," Jeremiah said quickly. "I should extend the same courtesy to you that you did to me, Bruce."

He gestured for Bruce to make himself comfortable; he took off his coat and lay it on on of the desks. Bruce looked around the workshop; he'd been in it not too long ago but hadn't gotten a good enough look around. Everything was organized, not obsessively so, but neatly organized. Bruce could tell everything had its place, files were organized, and blueprints hung from the wall. The centerpiece to the room was Jeremiah's generators, the wires still hanging out where they needed to be fixed into place.

Jeremiah picked up his glass of bourbon as he rounded the table. He seemed on edge, nervous. Bruce wondered if this was just how Jeremiah was or if something was making him anxious. Then Bruce remembered that he wasn't just a teenager in the situation; he was essentially Jeremiah's boss. He wielded the power to end the project in a second. Jeremiah knew that. Jeremiah stopped and glanced at the bottle of bourbon.

"Do you?" he gestured awkwardly to the drink.

"Oh," Bruce shrugged, "no."

"Oh, right, minor."

Though Bruce was a minor, Gotham had never been the most prohibitionist of cities, and the policing of minors was practically non-existent in the wake of other, more violent crimes. He was honestly trying to clean his system. The vague memories of debauchery and senselessness still made impacts in his daily life and relationships. He wasn't keen on revisiting his experiences with hard liquor anytime soon.

"So, the project," Jeremiah inched towards the generator.

"Yes," Bruce nodded. "Could you explain to me a bit about the schematics?"

"Well—"

Jeremiah proceeded to talk in-depth about the battery. He talked avidly, if a bit rigidly. His arms never really left his sides other than to point something out. Jeremiah knew his machine thoroughly, from costs of pieces to the immediate function of each section to the areas that he needed to improve. Bruce could tell Jeremiah knew these details intimately; he doubted Jeremiah even had to rehearse the information. Jeremiah's eyes kept flicking back to Bruce, as if seeking approval for every part of the machine. Bruce entertained him with the occasional nod, which seemed to boost Jeremiah's moral. Even if Bruce understood only about three-fourths of what Jeremiah was describing, he was thoroughly impressed.

As Jeremiah wrapped up his presentation, Bruce complimented the work: "It's incredible what you've been able to accomplish Jeremiah."

"Yes, well," Jeremiah pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. "My work has improved exponentially since Wayne Enterprises has stepped in with proper equipment and funding. Everything has gone much quicker."

"I'm glad that the grant helped," Bruce smiled. Jeremiah seemed to miss the comment as something caught his eye. He immediately turned to fix something on the battery. Bruce let him work, not wanting to break Jeremiah's concentration. As he watched, Bruce recalled to the night they were in the back of the police car. The engineer was much more relaxed now and much more confident, even if he was on edge. Bruce remembered something as Jeremiah tinkered away.

"How did you know it was my birthday?" Bruce asked impulsively. Bruce continued as Jeremiah looked up at him with a sense of confusion. "You mentioned it was my birthday right before we confronted Jerome. How did you know?"

"Oh," Jeremiah thought for a moment as he exhaled. "I'm sorry, I was just in the moment thinking about it when I said it." Jeremiah saw the confused worry in Bruce's expression, so he continued. "I've kept a certain interest in the acquaintances and targets of Jerome. I felt like I needed to do something while he was tormenting the city, but I was too cautious to act. So, I researched." Jeremiah seemed to shy around the subject, as if waiting for retaliation. "I am embarrassed to say I know quite a bit about you, Bruce, mostly about my brother's obsession with you. There was something he saw in you that he decided was worth tormenting. I'm truly sorry that he chose you."

Bruce nodded cautiously, "I understand. Knowing more about your enemy is best. I suspect anyone with enough conviction can find information about me, especially something as mundane as a birthday."

The admission bothered Bruce a little. It showed a strange side to Jeremiah, but it wasn't like Gotham had a tight seal on information. A quick bribe of an official could give someone access to a whole database of police archives and other civil records. Truthfully, Bruce felt he would have done the same in Jeremiah's position.

"I apologize, again," Jeremiah said as he looked at Bruce, "for my actions and for everything he did to you on that stage a few days ago. I should have stopped him long ago, or at least been better prepared."

"Jeremiah," Bruce insisted. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was," Jeremiah shook his head. "Jerome was as much shaped by me as he was by his own hand." Jeremiah continued before Bruce could intervene again. "I left him; I escaped his warped mind, the circus, and our abusive mother. Jerome was never smart enough to survive on his own or preserve what little of his sanity remained; I knew it even then. I'd expected him to end up on the nightly news. After I left, my mother just stopped caring about Jerome and he became even darker than before. I escaped, and my brother was lost in a place where there was no one who helped him. He may have been born amoral, but I didn't improve his mental status. I paid the price for it, and so did Gotham."

"You can't think like that Jeremiah," Bruce insisted as Jeremiah's demeanor seemed to shift from anxious to a dark irritation.

"It's all I can think about, Bruce," Jeremiah said sighing. "These thoughts of Jerome, they're consuming me." Jeremiah leaned up against the counter, staring at the generator as he thought of what to say next. "I just can't shake this feeling after Jerome died," Jeremiah drank. "It's the strangest blend of—" he paused "—misery and joy and rage and—" Jeremiah slammed his rocks glass on the desk. "I feel, so confused. I felt it before, when I thought he was dead the first time. It's come back even worse."

Bruce felt like he understood. Jeremiah was coming to terms with Jerome's death still. Jeremiah wasn't sure what Jerome was to him in life and, in death, that fact was twofold. Bruce decided to etch in, to see if he could help Jeremiah make sense of it.

"Jeremiah," Bruce said softly. "You cared about your brother. No matter what he became, there's that familial tie that—"

A laugh suddenly burst into the silence; it was bitter, humorless. It sent a chill down Bruce's spine. It was Jerome's laugh. Jeremiah saw the stunned look on Bruce's face and stopped.

"No, I hated that bastard," Jeremiah growled finally. "He was so destructive and chaotic. He was pointless and so was his existence." Jeremiah sighed. "I want to create. I want to build something that will last forever. Have my name stamped on it. Not," he stopped, "not die senselessly with a smile."

They were quiet for a moment. Bruce was weighing his next move. Jeremiah poured another glass of bourbon. Bruce had seen the look in his eye before, it was a despair that he had felt not long ago. It was the depression someone had only when they lost their purpose. After years of hiding from Jerome, Jeremiah must have been feeling directionless. He knew what he wanted, but the way he was used to doing it wasn't viable anymore. He was like a jailbird who had been set free and had nowhere to go.

The wheels kept turning behind Jeremiah's eyes, fueling a sort of hidden anger, "I know it must be strange for anyone to wish their brother dead. He was less of a brother and more of a dagger in my side: bleeding me. He destroyed or killed everything around me: all my childhood friendships, my mazes, a cat I took home once, our mother. He did to me a thousand times that which I did to him." He gritted his teeth; a cold anger came out. "I wish I was the one to have killed him: stabbed him right there on the stage and watched as the life left his murderous eyes."

There was a stressed silence. Jeremiah seemed to realize what he said was abnormal but didn't dare look up at Bruce. Bruce knew this was partly the drink talking, but he wasn't naïve enough to believe that Jeremiah didn't mean it.

"Is it wrong to feel that way?" Jeremiah's voice was full of caution, like he was petting a cobra.

"No," Bruce didn't even give a moment's thought to the question. "I've felt it too."

Jeremiah looked up at him with genuine shock. Jeremiah had expected a quick, moral answer or a speech to direct away from the actual question. Instead, here was a teenager not only reaffirming his position but admitting to the same feeling.

"A few years ago, I found my parents killer," Bruce stopped for a moment, the memory pulsing to life. "I'd tracked him down to his apartment and confronted him. There was a moment where there was a gun in my hand." He paused again. "I almost killed him. Killing him  _felt_  right in the moment, but I chose not to. Moments after I left him, he took his own life." Bruce lowered his gaze, "For a long time, I felt like a wanted to be the one to kill him. I felt like I had failed; even if I  _chose_  not to avenge them. It didn't matter if he was dead and I knew it was wrong to kill him there; I didn't pull the trigger. When someone destroys a part of your life, it seems only fair that you are the one to enact revenge."

Jeremiah stared transfixed as Bruce ended his story. For the first time in his life, Jeremiah felt understood. He wanted to shake Bruce's hand or hug him, just do anything to show appreciation for the single human who could understand. The next sentence stopped Jeremiah from doing that.

"But it's not justice, and it's not what you need to move on." Bruce said seriously. "If I were to have killed him, he would have destroyed another part me. You can't dwell on what-ifs, or they'll never stop bleeding you."

Jeremiah mused at the strangeness of the conclusion. The word "justice" seemed important to Bruce. The way he had a moral conviction of a monk yet was human enough to admit weakness intrigued Jeremiah. It was a facinating combination; one that could only have spawned from great tragedy and darkness. Jeremiah wondered if that was what Jerome saw in him.

"Jerome is dead; he will never harm you or anyone else again," Bruce finished. "That's all that matters now."

Jeremiah nodded quickly, "I guess you're right."

Suddenly, Bruce's phone buzzed. He was a little surprised, he was sure they were at least 10 feet underground, but, with Jeremiah living here, Bruce suspected that he'd figured out how to get a signal in his workplace. Bruce quickly checked the phone, Alfred had texted him to make sure he was alright. Only now did Bruce realize the time.

"It's getting late," Jeremiah was the one to say it.

"I'd better get going." Bruce said as he picked up his coat.

"Then, I'll keep working on the project," Jeremiah rubbed his hands together tentatively. Bruce picked up his jacket and slid it on. Jeremiah seemed to stare off into the middle-distance, a contemplative look in his eye.

"Well," Bruce nodded towards him. "Thank you for showing me the project; you've done excellent work. I will ensure that the funds keep coming your way until there is a working prototype. Goodnight, Jeremiah." He walked to the door and touched the handle.

"Bruce," Jeremiah called out; Bruce turned around to face him. Jeremiah fixed the glasses back onto his face. "Your father, was very personable. We'd have conversations like this." Jeremiah nodded he stared at the project. "He ended up making things a little less lonely for the short time I knew him." A pause and another nod, "He was a good man, and so are you."

Bruce allowed a small smile to brighten his face, "Thank you."

Bruce turned around to exit out the door, but Jeremiah spoke again, "I might have an update on the project by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Bruce questioned. "That's very quick."

"Yes, I'm a very quick worker," Jeremiah crossed his arms. "When I'm inspired, days of work can go by in an hour."

Bruce felt Jeremiah's desperation. Being alone for so long, Jeremiah must have been starved for company.

"Tomorrow then," Bruce confirmed and stepped out of the room, leaving Jeremiah to his work.


	3. Tomorrow

3\. Tomorrow

"Again?" Alfred raised his eyebrow as Bruce slid his coat on. "Surely, there can't be a major development this quickly in the program."

Bruce buttoned up the coat and weighed his words carefully, "I think that this might be less of a program visit, and more of a personal one."

"Oh, personal," Alfred said in a tone that prefaced a lecture. "What kind of personal business is there to talk about?"

Bruce spoke cautiously, "Jeremiah needs help sorting things out. He's lonely; he needs someone to talk to."

"A therapist then," Alfred suggested promptly. "Therapists are wonderful at helping people to sort out their business, not eighteen-year-old billionaires."

"Alfred, I'm trying to help him," Bruce said.

"There are many people who can help him with whatever he is experiencing. I don't understand why it has to be you. He is not your responsibility."

"Jeremiah talks to me because he believes we have similar experiences." Bruce explained. "We are the only people who know what it's like to be targeted by Jerome. I think I can help him more than any therapist."

"That may be so," Alfred nodded. "Is he really going to improve in the long term if he doesn't seek help from a professional?"

"He has confided in me. I don't want to abandon him. Doing so might drive him further from society, and he has so much to offer the world."

Alfred sighed, "Master Bruce, I can't help but see a pattern in your behavior; you tend to have a penchant for wanting to help damaged things and people. It started with old toys, extended to such people as Ms. Kyle, and now I see it heading somewhere that is beyond what you are ready. Tell me, what if Jeremiah has more deep-seated problems—problems that cannot be fixed with a good chat over tea—then what is your plan of action?"

"Alfred, I don't think things will co—"

"He's said strange things, hasn't he?" Alfred interjected softly; Bruce quieted for a moment.

"Nothing I wouldn't say under the same circumstances."

"Right, Jeremiah is under extraordinary circumstances," Alfred agreed. "In my years of service, I've met people who've been trapped underground, either by captors or in fear of them. Isolation from society is not something anyone can endure for long stretches of time without losing a bit of their mind. I'm not saying that Jeremiah is damaged or could not be an ally to you; I'm just insisting that there be time give for that healing to happen on its own. I don't want you in over your head with someone who could easily be as bad as Jerome."

Bruce sighed. He knew Alfred meant well. He didn't want to worry Alfred any more than necessary. The amount of stress Bruce had added to Alfred's life was shown in the whitened hairs and deepened lines in his face. Still, Bruce couldn't shake the feeling that he could help Jeremiah overcome his psychological obstacles.

Alfred exhaled, "I won't stop you, Master Bruce. You are an adult, and an old codger like me shouldn't restrain you here. I just want you to be safe. I understand the burden of caring about a friend. Just don't allow him to misuse whatever trust you put in him. Please, don't forget to listen to your more cautious voices."

"I promise. I won't go in over my head," Bruce smiled appreciatively.

* * *

It was again that Bruce found himself being led by the stoic Ecco through the maze to Jeremiah's workshop. Bruce found himself paying attention to the curves of the maze, trying to decipher the way through. He had become familiar by now, but there were several places that he was sure he would lose himself in if he didn't have Ecco. There was a stubborn silence between them as they walked down the hallway. Bruce finally decided to make an attempt to break the silence.

"I imagine that your job has become easier after recent events," Bruce realized that he did not know much about her other than her occupation and her appreciation of Jeremiah's work. Then again, she did not seem intent on giving up any information, probably a side effect of the discretion required for her daily work. Bruce didn't even think Ecco was her real name.

"On the contrary," Ecco said with a sense of gravitas, "my job has become increasingly important. Jeremiah is known to the public, and Jerome still has followers who would tear him to shreds at a moment's notice. It would be foolish to let my guard down now. Even if that were not the case, I would never allow myself to become complacent. I must be ready to do whatever Jeremiah asks of me." He patted a holster wrapped around her waist, "I've even had to upgrade due to the amount of activity I've been picking up."

"I'm sure Jeremiah appreciates that kind of loyalty," Bruce complimented.

Ecco smiled at the sudden commendation, or maybe the mention of Jeremiah was enough.

People like Ecco always intrigued Bruce: people who at first seemed normal but ultimately had some unforeseen training or abilities that wouldn't be perceived from a first glance. She almost reminded him of Alfred. She performed menial tasks, but, at the same time, carried a handgun. He wondered what her story was and figured the easiest way to find out would be to ask her.

"How did you come to work for Jeremiah?"

Ecco tilted her head to the side, still not making eye contact as she led him down the hall, "I had the necessary qualities that Jeremiah desired, and he hired me."

The non-answer hung in the air. Bruce pulled back; if she didn't want to answer, he wouldn't make her feel obligated to explain.

Ecco sighed, "I'm sorry; I'm not used to being open with people. This job requires an immense amount of discretion. Usually, I am not permitted to explain myself, but, Jeremiah trusts you. I will as well." She continued. "Jeremiah pursued me specifically. My skillset is highly sought after in Gotham, for the right and wrong reasons. There was something about Jeremiah and his plight that interested me, so I decided to work for him." She paused. "I just knew that he was going to do great things; I wanted to be the one to ensure that they happened." She seemed saddened suddenly. "I admit I have not always lived up to the role. I allowed myself to be hypnotized by that Hatter into helping those maniacs capture Jeremiah. I even propped him up as a bullet shield at one point." She seemed distressed as she revealed the information.

"It wasn't your fault," Bruce reassured instantly. "I've read about Tetch's abilities, his hypnotic powers completely subjugate the victim to his will." Bruce understood the feeling. He knew what it was like to watch from the inside while another controlled his thoughts and actions. "You can't blame yourself for what others force you to do."

"Still, I cannot forgive myself," Ecco said distantly as they rounded the last corner. "All I can do is make it up to him, to pay penance. For that, I'd do  _anything_  for him."

She reached the door and knocked. Jeremiah's voice emanated from behind the door and she guided it open. Bruce stepped in and was greeted by a smiling Jeremiah. He was standing next to the battery, looking less posed and awkward than the first time Bruce had gone over.

"Bruce," Jeremiah beamed warmly as he entered. "I've got a lot to show you today; I promise you will not be disappointed."

Despite impossible odds, Jeremiah seemed to have made immense progress on the project. He looked tried and was nursing a coffee cup as he explained the improvements he had made in less than twenty-four hours. The project seemed almost finished by the way he talked about it.

"I'm very impressed by your progress, Jeremiah."

"I told you. When I am inspired, I get incredible amounts of work done," Jeremiah took another sip from his coffee cup.

"I never doubted that," Bruce said. "When do you think it'll be working?"

Jeremiah stiffened a little, "I'm not entirely sure." He tapped his fingers on the mug. "I have to run tests. Make sure that the energy doesn't fry every electrical unit within a four-block radius." Jeremiah sighed. "It's honestly a dangerous machine if wired incorrectly. I will have to do several tests once I'm finished, and I would rather do the tests here away from society before putting it in someone's backyard."

"I understand," Bruce looked down at the blueprints for the battery. It was very efficient, barely any space was wasted. It looked like the many mazes that decorated the walls of Jeremiah's room. The fact that the internal wiring battery was inspired by the maze structure intrigued Bruce. "It's amazing that you've been able to incorporate your hobby into your work like this."

"Would you like to solve one of them?" Jeremiah asked suddenly; he seemed pleased that Bruce was taking interest in the mazes.

Bruce looked up, "Sure."

Jeremiah quickly set down his coffee mug, turned to a cabinet, opened it up, and pulled out a piece of paper. He cleared a space on a desk and unfolded the paper. It suddenly became as large as one of Jeremiah's blueprints. Jeremiah quickly picked up a pen and handed it to Bruce. Bruce took the pen and started to work on the maze. Jeremiah watched over his shoulder, almost expectantly; then, realizing he was practically perched on Bruce's shoulder, he excused himself to continue work on the battery.

The maze was remarkably complex. It was particularly extensive and obviously the product of passionate, careful labor. There were enough twists and turns to force Bruce to retrace his lines. The maze was hand drawn with the use of a ruler, which lent to a less than perfect rendition of the maze. The slight imperfections seemed to add to the visual confusion as some lines curved instead of turning abruptly and some led to star intersections with no clear indication as to the correct way. All in all, it took Bruce about twenty minutes to finish the maze and reach the middle.

"Above average," Jeremiah commented as Bruce set down the pen. "Usually it takes about thirty minutes. I've let a variety of professional maze solvers attempt them as well as anyone who was interested." Jeremiah seemed fairly pleased with the outcome.

"You obviously put a great amount of thought into the maze," Bruce said standing up and jokingly added. "Perhaps you could postpone your energy project and make maze."

Jeremiah smiled a little, "Perhaps so, I could take a break." He leaned over the desk, analyzing the maze. "I enjoy the way that mazes make one think. The objective is clear, but the way to reach it is unclear. It's quite similar to my work. You know where you want to go, but it takes time, effort, and a new perspective to get there. I used to make mazes when I lived in the circus, and I would try and get people to solve them. You learn a lot about people by how long it takes or where they think the lines go or if they look up at you while solving it. You can trick people in the next maze by using the information you get from them.

"Of course, labyrinths, like the one outside my door, are essentially the same thing as a maze on paper. Labyrinths just remove the birds eye view and punish mistakes more severely. Usually, when you reach a dead end, you just retrace the line until you reach the intersection. The same in a labyrinth, but it takes much more time, wears you down physically and mentally. Too many mistakes, you will get lost in it and perhaps never finish. . . Keeping the end safe. . . Or at least that's what I thought."

As he said this his mind seemed to drift. Bruce saw the change in Jeremiah that he had observed the previous day. He shifted so his stance was more aggressive, and his fingers crumpled the maze at the edges. A sort of darkness seemed to follow him and peek out when his thoughts turned to-

"Jerome," Jeremiah ground his teeth. "I thought that maybe building a labyrinth around me would give me enough time to escape him when the need arose. But he outsma—" he stopped and bit his lip. "He outmaneuvered me somehow. He found my home. He compromised my most trusted assistant with mind-control—who would have thought to prepare for that? Worst of all, he lured me out of my home. He didn't even enter; he just waited for me to leave. He always knew how to trick me, but I could never do it to him. Even when we were young and he tried to solve my mazes, he would just create a straight line to the end, crossing all of the boundaries I put up." Jeremiah clenched his fists. "Maybe that's what bothered me most, he knew me well enough to know when I was going to try and trick him. He said it was because we were the same. That we thought the same. That our brains were wired the same down to the last neuron. But that's not true?" He said it questioningly. He turned hopefully to face Bruce, "You don't believe that, do you Bruce?"

Bruce was taken aback. Again, Jeremiah seemed to be reaching an emotional and psychological crucible, and he chose Bruce to help him confront it. Bruce felt a tug of obligation. His words had weight on what Jeremiah thought and felt; the implications of that were overwhelming.

"Of course not," Bruce said sincerely. "Jerome would say anything to upset you. You are your own man, Jeremiah."

A smile.

"Thank you." Jeremiah's gaze dropped suddenly as he seemed to be building up to something. "I'm sorry I keep bringing  _him_ up in our conversations. I apologize for yesterday as well." He stood straight, tucking his hands into his pants pockets. "I was still angry about Jerome. I thought about what you said: how there was still a familial tie and how his death was the only thing that mattered. You were right. I've put him to rest. It took a considerable amount of convincing, but I was able to give him a marked grave, not a numbered one or his ashes scattered to the winds. Perhaps a speck of post-mortem kindness can make up for our differences. I'm just working on burying my feelings with him."

Jeremiah searched Bruce's face again. It was disconcerting; he was waiting for Bruce's reaction. Jeremiah was searching for approval. Bruce couldn't blame him. He could imagine the only praise that Jeremiah had received was a paycheck and an appreciative letter. He wondered if Jeremiah had ever seen any of his completed work or been thanked in person.

Before he could answer Jeremiah, Bruce's phone rang. He would have normally ignored it, but, if it were Alfred, he didn't want to worry him anymore than he was already. He glanced apologetically to Jeremiah then checked the number; it was an unknown. He would have ignored it, except his number was not known to the public, not even to telemarketers. Then Bruce remembered Selena knew his phone number, he had given it to her to call in emergencies. She was probably calling from a payphone.

"Take it, it might be important," Jeremiah said quickly before walking back over to tinker with his machine.

Bruce turned away from Jeremiah, flipped open the phone, and answered, "Hello?"

"Hey Bruce," Selena said on the other side, much to Bruce's relief. "Just wanted to check up on you after the whole Jerome thing."

"Careful, Selena," Bruce found himself smile a little. "Keep this up and you might sound concerned."

"No, just that was some good cake. I'd hate to not get some next year. You know you're like my only friend who's ever had a cake at their birthday, right?"

"Well, don't worry," Bruce said. "I'm with a friend; I'm safe."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jeremiah look up in appreciation.

"Yeah, sure," Bruce could practically hear her roll her eyes. "Alfred told me when I broke in and you weren't there. Jerome Junior looked like a real powerhouse on TV."

"Hey," Bruce said cautiously and, despite the impossible chances of Jeremiah hearing that, held the phone closer.

"Just don't be stupid, alright," she hung up quickly.

Bruce shook his head with a small smile. It was as close as he was going to get to an: "I care about you, stay safe." With her, everything had to be under some level of sarcasm or aloofness.

"Girlfriend?" Jeremiah asked suddenly. Bruce looked up at him. Jeremiah shied back: "Sorry, personal."

Bruce knew Jeremiah was just being friendly, "No, it's fine. It's. . . She's. . ." He paused for a moment; he'd answered this question wrong before, ". . . complicated."

"Can't see a relationship with someone as high profile as you being anything but complicated," Jeremiah immediately retracted again. "Sorry, I was trying to be funny."

"There's truth to it," Bruce nodded, remembering the only girls he'd had relationships with were a thief, a cultist, and a string of nameless girls from his brief stint with alcohol. "Haven't had something that was not complicated."

Jeremiah smiled politely; Bruce noticed Jeremiah didn't laugh around him anymore. He just smiled a bit, as if holding back.

"Do you have anyone?" The question just came out; Bruce internally groaned.

"No," Jeremiah fidgeted. "Never have. You don't meet many women underground or with the work pattern I have."

Bruce blinked and nodded casually.

Jeremiah straightened, as if Bruce had sent him a secret message, "Oh, Ecco? She's just my employee: very loyal. I'm grateful for her. She has kept a lot of secrets over the years." He nodded quickly. "Couldn't do anything without her."

"Oh, yes of course-"

"Why?" Jeremiah asked rapidly.

Bruce shrugged; he was definitely no matchmaker and shifted uncomfortably, "She seems very fond of you. There are very few people who would go the lengths she's gone."

"All the more reason not to scare her away," Jeremiah mumbled. "I asked her to dedicate her life to me, and that's what she did. She has been very useful. I'd honestly forget to eat if she didn't bring me groceries. I appreciate everything she's done for me. I don't know exactly how she wishes to be repaid, but I would. . ." he drifted off. "I guess you could say she is my . . . complicated."

Bruce nodded with an understanding expression. Not everything was black and white, especially relationships.

There was a knock on the door. It opened to reveal Ecco, she was holding a takeout bag from a local restaurant. Jeremiah jumped suddenly and looked down at his blueprints.

"I brought your dinner, Jeremiah," Ecco said, then she looked at Bruce. "Oh, I didn't account for you still being here. I thought the meeting would be over by now. I've only gotten enough for Jeremiah."

"That's fine," Bruce held up a hand. "I'd better get going."

Jeremiah looked up, "Oh, so soon?"

"I wouldn't want to intrude," Bruce said.

"Tomorrow," Jeremiah proposed suddenly. "I'll have another update then."

"Jeremiah, I'd hate for you to strain yourself," Bruce said. "You need some sleep. I'd suggest you rest before continuing."

"Oh, yes, of course," Jeremiah nodded looking slightly disappointed. "I will do that. Then continue progress as normal." Jeremiah gestured to Ecco. "Ecco, please show Mr. Wayne out."

"Do you mind if I try and solve the labyrinth?" Bruce asked before Ecco could move. He was mostly asking out of curiosity, but there was an ulterior motive. There was that little cautious voice that Alfred had mentioned nagging him about not knowing how to leave the compound without guided assistance. Knowing the way out might finally ease any tension that he felt there.

"Of course!" Jeremiah seemed to light up as Bruce suggested it. "Go right ahead."

Bruce nodded and passed by Ecco, "Goodnight."

He disappeared out the door, walking quickly down the hallway.

Ecco turned towards Jeremiah after shutting the door, "Jeremiah, are you su—"

Jeremiah brushed past her hurriedly towards the wall of monitors on one side of the room. He flicked a switch and they buzzed to life with static. One of the screens showed a one of the screens rippled distorting the image; Jeremiah thumped it with his finger until the image cleared. The screen showed a black and white picture of Bruce at a crossroad in the maze. Jeremiah felt a surge of interest bordering on voyeuristic properties as he watched Bruce through the camera. Bruce seemed to be deep in thought as he looked down the different paths. He closed his eyes and rubbed his chin.

"I apologize for not thinking to get enoug—" Ecco was cut off as Jeremiah waved his arm fiercely at her while shushing her.

Jeremiah pushed his glasses higher on the bridge his nose. He settled down into his office chair, resting his elbow on the desk to prop up his chin. Finally, Bruce opened his eyes and walked down the corridor to his left. Jeremiah felt a rush of approval, he'd gone the correct way. Bruce continued as the passage wound around; Jeremiah rolled his chair over to the next screen. Again, Bruce came to a fork, but this time he seemed to know the way. He continued down the path until he hit a more confusing part: a star shaped section with four competing paths. This one seemed to have Bruce stumped. A minute went by. Then another. Bruce took a step to his right, and Jeremiah felt a similar sense of excitement. It was the wrong way, but it didn't seem to matter. If Bruce went the correct way, Jeremiah was happy for his friend; if he went the wrong way, Jeremiah had deceived him. Jeremiah wasn't sure which one felt better. However, Bruce stopped before heading down the wrong path and pulled himself back into the intersection.

"I can go get him, if you want me to show him the way out," Ecco, who'd been standing over Jeremiah's shoulder unknown to him, said.

"He'll figure it out," Jeremiah said quickly, feeling almost aggravated that she even questioned the process.

As he spoke, Bruce turned down the correct path.

"See?" Jeremiah pointed to the screen and traced his finger alongside Bruce. "He doesn't fail to amaze."

A few minutes and some close calls later, Bruce reached the front door. Jeremiah immediately tapped the button to open the front; Bruce exited into the cold February air and looked up at the camera.

"I'll come back in a few days Jeremiah," Bruce nodded. "Get some rest."

Bruce then walked off to where his car was parked. Jeremiah wished he'd had the foresight to install a speaker outside so that he could respond.

"See you soon, Bruce. . ." Jeremiah's voice trailed off as he stared at the uncolored camera feed leading outside.


	4. Dithering

4\. Dithering

The day dragged by incredibly, maddening slow. Before, Jeremiah had a moment to look forward to; now, there was nothing. He was again in his workshop staring at the machine, prodding it occasionally without any work being done. Jeremiah found work almost impossible without a set due date for Bruce's return. He found himself pondering the meaning of "a few days." Was it tomorrow or the next day or the day after that? Reaching out would appear desperate, especially if he had absolutely no work done. He figured Bruce would call eventually, but the anticipation made him anxious. What if he never came back? What would happen to their friendship?

The next day came, or he assumed it did. Despite the clock that adorned his wall, time seemed stagnant since he couldn't see the sun rise or set. No matter what time it was, his body always had a way of sleeping at the weirdest times. He fell asleep for some time and awoke to find Ecco peering over him. He snapped awake and Ecco took several steps back apologetically. He sat straight in his chair. He had a small bedroom (about only big enough to have a small bed and nightstand in it), but it often went neglected as his chair served as a much more convenient substitute.

Jeremiah rubbed his face, not realizing his glasses were still on. He sighed and pulled out a handkerchief to get the fingerprints off of them. Ecco slid breakfast in front of him, it was something she'd made—the eggs had traces of eggshells and the bacon was slightly burnt. Jeremiah looked up appreciatively, Ecco beamed brightly at him. Despite how she acted around others, she was often very, very different in his sole presence: much softer.

Jeremiah had told Bruce the truth in a way, his feelings toward Ecco were complicated. In one way, he very much appreciated her and could not do daily tasks without her. On the other hand, little things about her drove him up the wall. She doted on him constantly, which he wouldn't mind scarcely, but, when she was his only constant companion, it particularly annoyed him. He was well aware of her romantic inclinations towards him despite what he implied to Bruce; she wasn't necessarily good at hiding them when they were alone despite his aloof actions. While these feelings were beneficial, and in some way mutual, he couldn't help but purposely distance himself from her. Being solely dependent on someone who had strong feelings for him could lead to—in his worst paranoid nightmare—a  _Misery_ -esk situation or—if their relationship soured because of romance—her abandoning him. He needed her services more than he needed her. He wasn't sure he loved Ecco—he wasn't sure he had ever experienced something like love—but he did appreciate and hold a fondness for her.

While Jeremiah ate, Ecco found her way over to the generator. If anyone knew the schematics of Jeremiah's devices as equally as he did, it was Ecco. He doubted she understood half of what he did—she'd admitted to as much—but she had seen his projects enough times to know when he'd made an improvement. She seemed to frown as she went over scanning for new additions from her last visit. She didn't say anything.

"Is something the matter?" Jeremiah asked pointedly, almost anticipating her answer.

"No," Ecco answered quickly. "It's just that, you were making such progress earlier, more than I've ever seen you make on a project. Now, you've seemed to slow. Did the inspiration wear off?"

Jeremiah shifted into a shrug, "It seems. . . pointless right now. I won't be meeting a deadline anytime soon: my mind has become muddled and distracted. It seems I'm concerned more about when my muse will return rather than getting the work done."

"Muse?" Ecco asked. Jeremiah realized he had used the term many times in his own mind, but he'd never expressed it verbally.

"Bruce is my muse," Jeremiah said simply.

Ecco seemed confused for a moment, "He inspires your work?" Ecco's voice had a hint of jealousy in it.

"Of course," Jeremiah insisted. "A muse could be anything honestly, but Bruce understands me in a way that helps me focus on what needs to be done. I want to impress him. So, taking my time seems appropriate. Now I don't know when he'll return, and he told me to rest. I'm grateful for that, but I want to do good by him." He stopped. "I guess, I'm just a little concerned with how to proceed."

"You've never talked about needing a muse before," Ecco replied, still fixated on the "muse" part. "Have you always had one?"

Jeremiah shifted, and his demeanor became darker, "Before, my muse was Jerome, or, more accurately, the fear of Jerome. He motivated me to do everything." Ecco seemed uncomfortable, she knew how Jeremiah became angry whenever he talked about Jerome. "Taking contracts was just to keep funds flowing into the construction of this place. Even, the battery was initially designed so I wouldn't have to pay for extensive electrical bills. Everything might as well have had a Jerome label slapped on it." Jeremiah shook his head. "But it's important to have a muse. You remember when I thought Jerome was dead the first time, how lost I was."

Ecco nodded solemnly. The news of Jerome's death at the gala had brought Jeremiah immediate joy, a joy that was followed by an alcohol fueled depression. The depression finally culminated in weeks of studying the footage of Jerome invading the police station and holding the gala hostage. Despite everything, Jeremiah had become convinced that Jerome wasn't dead. Everything was too easy, Jerome wouldn't die that easily. Jeremiah scoured the footage, and, after Jerome's killer had been revealed to be a criminal cultist, Jeremiah pursued the idea of a retractable knife being used to murder Jerome. The leads went nowhere; but the fact that he was unable to view, or even find, the body after the Arkham incident only fueled this fascination. Ecco found herself talking Jeremiah out of his obsession time and time again.

Then, the night of Jerome's resurrection came. Ecco had retired to her apartment when the news hit and went to find Jeremiah. Jeremiah locked down the entire complex. Ecco was locked on the outside; Jeremiah convinced she was acting under duress. He wouldn't let her in. For a week after, Jeremiah remained locked inside, surviving off of leftover food. Only due to partial starvation and a newspaper declaring Jerome's incarceration did he finally believe her. She'd helped him through the aftermath, acting as a pseudo psychiatrist as she listened to his paranoid rants and assured him that their defenses would be ready for anything Jerome could throw at them.

Jeremiah figured that's where Ecco's feelings had become less one-sided. Jeremiah doubted anyone else would have waited outside the door for several hours each day trying to convince him to open the door.

"I'm glad my muse has been replaced," Jeremiah muttered. "I cannot lose my muse, or I'll lose myself."

"Perhaps you need a different muse," Ecco suggested.

Jeremiah understood her implication; the hope was plain in her eyes. He felt irritated at the suggestion. As if she could be Bruce, as if she could possibly be his best friend, as if she could understand him like Bruce did, how absolutely absurd!

"No, Bruce is my muse. He's the only one who can be," he said it forcefully more than he meant to—no, he meant the anger in his voice. Ecco should have known better than to suggest something so asinine. She could be so oblivious at times.

Ecco did what she usually did; she dipped her head and lowered her eyes, "I'm sorry."

Jeremiah sighed as she looked pitiful, "It's fine."

The conversation seemed to awkwardly end there. Ecco didn't seem keen on saying anything else. Jeremiah turned his attention back to breakfast. As he ate, he noticed something from his morning routine was missing.

"Did they not have the newspaper today?" Jeremiah asked as his only portal into the real world was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh," Ecco said quickly. "Yes, let me get it."

She pulled the paper out of her bag. She placed it on the desk. Immediately, Jeremiah noticed something wrong. The front page was missing, leading directly to the black and white stock figures as an inadequate front. A quick thumbing through the paper showed another page missing precariously. It wasn't incidental.

"There are missing pages," Jeremiah stated, offering Ecco a chance to explain.

"Oh," Ecco shifted uncomfortably. "Seems like a misprint. I'll make sure that tomorrow's paper is complete."

Jeremiah stared at her for a second before cocking his head to the side. "I never thought I'd ever hear you lie to me, Ecco," Jeremiah jabbed, annoyed. Ecco turned ghostly white at the accusation, only assuring Jeremiah's suspicion. He let venom intentionally into his voice. "Whiteout would have been less conspicuous, if you were so intent on deceiving me. Do you have it?"

Like a child caught hiding a report card, Ecco reached back into her bag and pulled out the folded pages of newspaper, "I just didn't want you to worry."

Jeremiah grabbed it from her roughly, crumpling it in the process. He unfolded it and read the front page, nothing in the headlines, but in the corner was a start to an article titled:  _Jerome Valeska Lookalike: Who is He?_ The article, written by a Valerie Vale, might have well have been labeled a hit piece. It described the events with Jerome, Jeremiah's sudden appearance, and went into an interview with a policeman who'd seen Jeremiah being interviewed by Gordon after Jerome invaded his home. The article noted that Detective Gordon had refused to comment; similarly, Haly's Circus, and Saint Ignatius refused questioning as well. Jeremiah was glad that they had proved reliable in their discretion. Later, the article went into speculation on the whole endeavor, jokingly including wild claims such as that Jeremiah was a clone of Jerome (the absurdity of which Jeremiah could only chuckle at).

It ended on a catch-all note: " _Despite the anonymity of this illusive figure, this reporter remains cautious. Could Gotham's Valeska related problems be over, or is this a prelude to a second reign? The only answer could be from the doppelgänger man himself. I implore this man to reach out and quell the worries of the people of Gotham. Only then, can Gotham's future be certain_."

Jeremiah laughed as he read the last words. Ecco perked up and smiled as her fears were washed away. She chuckled alongside him.

"It's quite ridiculous," Ecco said.

"Ecco, you think too little of me," Jeremiah chided suddenly as the laughter disappeared in an instant. "If Ms. Vale wishes to propagate such nonsense in search of a scoop, let her. It's not going to change anything."

"Yes, I'm sorry," Ecco said again as Jeremiah stood.

"I'd better get to my work," Jeremiah muttered.

Jeremiah turned to the machine and went over the diagram. Ecco busied herself cleaning up after him, packing up the containers.

The incident didn't sit well with Jeremiah, if Ecco was so intent on maintaining the status quo that she would go to the lengths to hide information from him, then she was a liability. He needed her not to distrust him in any way. Jeremiah pondered for a moment whether or not she would allow herself to be critical of him. He felt like she was critical inside her head. She just never expressed it. That worried him.

"Ecco, what do you think is wrong with me?" He asked quickly. It wasn't a genius tactic, but it was jarring enough to unsettle her.

"What?" Ecco turned suddenly to look at him with concern.

"I've been feeling strangely, lately," Jeremiah said plainly. "So, what am I doing wrong?"

Ecco looked shocked, "Nothing, you're doing nothing wrong."

"You're lying again," Jeremiah muttered, biting back anger under a façade of calm. She thought something was wrong. She distrusted him. He saw it in her eyes. "Surely there is something wrong with me; I'm human after all."

"I would never want to criticize you."

"Criticize away," Jeremiah insisted softly. He had gotten angry with her twice already and wanted to reassure her that it wouldn't happen again—even though he could not promise that he wouldn't. He wanted to see how she took to criticizing him.

Ecco paused, taking a breath, weighting her words, "I don't believe you are living up to your potential. As much as I believe that you are a brilliant man, I also believe that these confines are stifling your abilities."

"So, you think I should go above ground," Jeremiah nodded. It was a simple suggestion. He almost sighed with relief.

"Yes," Ecco nodded. "If not for your work, then for yourself."

"Would you stay with me?" Jeremiah asked. Her face flushed; he pressed on acting like he didn't notice: "As my most trusted employee, my only employee, I would like to keep you on."

"Of course," Ecco said without hesitation.

"Good, then I'll consider it," Jeremiah figured that was all the constructive criticism he was going to get from her.

Ecco hesitated for a moment, "Might I say something else?"

Jeremiah nodded acceptingly, "Do not hold back."

"You are inspired, I can tell," Ecco said quickly. "I've known you long enough to see that. It's in your eyes. So, why aren't you working?"

Jeremiah bit his lip. Damn. For as ignorant as she seemed sometimes, others she hit right on the mark. She just knew him too well. He couldn't decide if it was an advantage or a hinderance.

"If I finish, Bruce won't have any reason to visit anymore," he realized how much he sounded like a child. He hated the pitiful look she gave him as he told her something that he'd been mulling over for a while. "Best to postpone until I have another idea that will keep his interest." Jeremiah hesitated and echoed a previous point. "I cannot lose my muse again."

Ecco looked at him with understanding, "The Wayne boy doesn't seem the type to abandon people. I am sure your relationship will survive beyond the project. If I am wrong and he does leave, then it is his loss for not realizing your intellect. Besides, either way, you will always have me at your side." Realizing the time, she quickly excused herself. "I'd better get going. I've been tracking a group of Jerome's cultists back to their base of operation. I need to know if they know anything about your location."

"I'll keep the door bolted then," Jeremiah said as a pang of worry crossed his face. These excursions were stressful but necessary to insure his safety, even if he felt like they were prodding a sleeping tiger.

Ecco nodded and turned towards the door.

"Ecco," Jeremiah called, looking up from his work. She looked back, "Be careful."

Ecco grinned broadly, before exiting. With just two words, he'd repaired their relationship. Jeremiah couldn't stay mad at her; she was loyal to a fault. He'd just prefer her not doubt him, even if she did it only in her mind. Maybe it was better that she never criticized him. Yes, he preferred an unquestioning Ecco to the shrewd one. The fear of her doubting him now disturbed Jeremiah.

He went over to his desk chair to watch her leave. As he observed Ecco exit the complex, he activated the lock. She nodded towards the camera in goodbye and disappeared towards her motorcycle. As she left, Jeremiah felt a twitch in his hand. The tick reminded him of his fears, and he stood from the desk. He walked over to one of the many drawers and produced a key from his pocket. He unlocked it and pulled open the drawer. An assortment of hand guns lay there, polished, unused. He picked up a revolver. It felt heavy in his hand. It was preloaded, the safety on. Just in case someone was to break in while Ecco was gone.

Suddenly, he got the urge to aim it. He mock pointed it around the room. Despite his collection, he'd never fired a gun before. He never left the complex and the walls of his maze were prone to ricochet. Despite this, he was confident that it would defend him. Just point and shoot. Simple. As he pretended to aim around the room, he suddenly came face to face with his reflection. It was a mid-waist up mirror and removable if he needed extra space for blueprints, but now it stared back at him since he forgot to put it away the previous night. His red ruffled hair stood out against his light blue undershirt, but not as much as the silver gleaming gun. For a moment, Jeremiah felt a surge of power. He posed suddenly, simulating the gun's kickback. He smirked. He looked kind of intimidating. The thought amused him.

But he was not threatening enough. No one feared being shot by someone in glasses. Jeremiah took off his glasses and placed them on the desk. He returned to the now slightly blurry figure in the mirror. He could make out the fuzzy features in his face. Yes: no glasses—much better. He pretended the gun kicked back again, striking another pose as he did. He noticed the more flippantly he held the gun the more intimidating. The less he seemed to care, the more frightening he became. He ended up posing like the posters at a shooting range, the gun held slightly at the side while he stared himself down in the mirror. What was he, seven?

Jeremiah found himself smile a little. The figure in the mirror copied, spreading the small smile. He searched the mirror for a moment, noting a strange feeling from the mirror. Suddenly, the mirror's smile spread wider, slowly but surely. The figure inclined his head, creating a small shadow over his eyes. Jeremiah felt suddenly distant, like he was having a dream. The figure shifted again, the smile becoming broader. Suddenly, laughter sprang from the figure as the gun became more taught in the figure's hand, clicking off the safety.

Jerome pointed the gun at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah panicked.

He squeezed the trigger.

A deafening  _BANG!_  rang out, then the sound of breaking glass, and a  _PING!_  and  _CRACK!_  A rush of air whistled by his ear and both of them rang furiously. Jeremiah ducked and covered his ears in futility. He sat there for several moments his heart beating out of his chest. He didn't hear it ricochet again and stumbled to his feet.

The mirror was shattered. Pieces of glass littered the floor and part of his clothing from the mirror's explosion. The frame was split right open. The concrete behind it now had a bullet hole in it, but the bullet was nowhere to be seen. He twisted around, sure it whizzed by her ear. He found it embedded in a wooden table leg. He tried to pull it out but was surprised when it was still boiling hot. Suddenly, he remembered the gun in his hand. He glared at it, feeling betrayed. He felt the need to fling it, to get it away from him, but stopped out of fear it would fire again. He slid the safety back on and gently placed the gun on the table.

He glanced around, for a second, just a second, he could have sworn that Jerome was in the room. He wasn't though.  _Was he?_ He was gone.  _How did he know?_ Dead.  _He'd been dead before._ For good this time.

Jeremiah sighed and grabbed his glasses off of the table, "I better get the broom."


	5. Dinner at Wayne Manor

"Are you sure you want Mr. Valeska to come here, Master B?" Alfred asked as he finished some last-minute dusting.

"It'll get Jeremiah out of his state of isolation," Bruce shrugged as he looked out of the parlor window. "Call it an experiment to see how he is outside his bunker. He responded fast enough to the invitation: that's a plus."

"An experiment," Alfred nodded. "So, you're a scientist now?"

"Call it a test then," Bruce sighed. "Just to see how he does on the outside for a long time with people he doesn't know."

"Yes, but wouldn't you rather meet at a café. Something that doesn't allow for someone to gain access to our sanctum of solitude."

"I appreciate the thought, Alfred," Bruce turned to face him. "If anything, I can always count on you to be the voice of caution."

"Alfred the Wary does have a nice ring to it," Alfred smirked.

A little buzzer went off, indicating that the gate had been triggered for entry.

"I'll get the door then," Alfred said as he excused himself. He turned and left through the parlor doors, leaving Bruce to himself.

Suddenly, Bruce felt the breeze from the window.

"Hello, Selina," Bruce spoke without even turning.

"Geez, can't get the drop on you anymore. So, who's the guy at your door?"

Alfred made his way to the front of Wayne Manor. The large solid wood doors stood as a magnificent testament to the security of the house. He wondered if he could just leave them closed lest another breach in security would enter the home. Bruce wouldn't be too pleased with that notion. So, Alfred reached for the handle. When he opened the door, there was no one. Alfred peered out into the night, trying to see if there had somehow been miscreants toying with the sensors. He turned and was surprised to find the guest of the hour looking at one of the many security cameras that dotted the manor. The man was twisted up against the wall, peering up at the bottom of the camera. He muttered something like he was reading to himself. Alfred found himself doing a double-take as if wishing there was someone else—anyone else—at the door. The peculiar redhead had his hair disheveled, and his outfit was a color contrast nightmare of a checkered Green-purple suit and an orange tie complemented by a blue overcoat. He also had a sizable cut on his chin. After several moments of the man not noticing him, Alfred spoke up.

"Takin' a look-see about?" Alfred asked curtly.

Jeremiah seemed startled and recoiled from the security camera like a child who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He turned and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back nervously.

"I apologize." He met Alfred's eyes briefly. "I was just admiring your security system. I have something similar in my home, just not standard issue like this one. I modified mine."

"Oh, I see," Alfred's voice was steadily suspicious. "Well, we've had a few unwelcome guests over the past couple of years. So, certain precautions have been taken to ensure that no more unwelcome guests can enter."

Jeremiah nodded politely, "Then I hope I am a welcome guest."

"Of course," Alfred gestured inward. "Master Bruce is in the parlor."

"Lead the way, Alfred," Jeremiah nodded, and Alfred led him down the hall.

Alfred realized the mention of his name, despite never introducing himself, "So, Master Bruce has mentioned me, has he? Only good things I hope."

Jeremiah paused. His eyes shifted quickly from one side to the other with the weight of thought, "Yes. Many times. Only good things, as you mentioned."

The way he said it made Alfred doubt that. He'd gotten information some other way. Jeremiah seemed shifty, hiding information that he shouldn't know. Alfred couldn't decide if he was overreacting or not. Then again, he knew better than to doubt his instinct; it had saved his life many times. At the same time, he knew that Bruce was trying to help Mr. Valeska; he felt denying Bruce that chance would strain Alfred's relationship to the boy in a time when it was more important than ever. So, he would suppress the feeling but not forget its wisdom.

Alfred opened the door to the parlor, and realized Bruce already had company, "Of course, the security system seems ineffective against strays."

Jeremiah rounded the corner and peered in. Bruce was standing next to a pretty girl, perched on the sofa. Jeremiah immediately recognized that it was Bruce's lady friend, Selina. Bruce looked over as the door opened. As he saw Jeremiah, he dipped his head in greeting. Jeremiah smiled broadly and returned the gesture. Selina looked over to the door; her eyes widened in surprise. She hadn't expected Jeremiah to look so similar to his brother—or at least pre-face removal Jerome. She seemed to scan Jeremiah's face, and then she glanced back over to Bruce for reassurance. Bruce just nodded with a small smile.

"Hey, Jeremiah, right?" She gave a short wave.

"Hello," Jeremiah stuck out his hand as he approached. "You must be Selina, Bruce's—" he stopped himself, finding words tumbling out of his mouth, "complicated."

Selina looked confused and amused. She flicked her eyes to Bruce, "Yes, I'm Bruce's complicated. And you're Bruce's underground, engineer friend."

"Oh, yes," after several seconds of Selina refusing his hand, Jeremiah dropped it.

Selina looked him up and down, a bemused look in her eye, "Nice hair."

Jeremiah tentatively touched his hair, realizing it was untidy. He ran his fingers through it, trying to straighten it, "Oh, my assistant, Ecco, had to drive me over. She brought her motorcycle today, and she didn't have an extra helmet. She's a bit of a speed demon." His mind seemed to race as if searching for other abnormalities in his appearance to explain away. He seemed to touch his chin self-consciously, running a line down the cut. "Strangest thing, my mirror broke suddenly—very suddenly—yesterday. I had to shave blind; it didn't go well. I use a straight razor, and they're hard enough  _with_ a mirror." He smiled it off.

"I'll take your coat, Mr. Valeska," Alfred offered.

"Oh, thank you, Alfred," Jeremiah shed his coat, revealing the more clashing colors of his apparel. Alfred disappeared to go hang up the coat.

"There a story behind the clothes too?" Selina prodded, finding each word Jeremiah said stranger than the last.

Jeremiah tugged at his green-purple fabric, "The story is quite mundane. I just slipped them on." He shrugged. "I grew up in a circus, the colors there are neon eye-sores. It makes me feel comfortable." He shrugged again. "I guess there's as much a story behind it as Bruce's propensity for wearing turtlenecks."

"It helps contain his broodiness," Selina teased, glancing at Bruce. "Anything less, and it'd escape into the air and smother us."

Bruce shook his head as a smirk appeared, Jeremiah chuckled politely.

"Perhaps it all depends on blending in with one's surroundings. The circus formed me, and—" Jeremiah gestured around to the gothic-looking room "—this place shaped Bruce."

Jeremiah looked around the room, taking it in slowly. He walked over to the main desk and ran his hand over it. As Jeremiah was preoccupied, Selina turned to Bruce with an amused smile.

"Oh, my, God. He's Jerome's brother?" she mouthed to him while glancing back at Jeremiah. She pointed to her head and swirled her finger.

Bruce glanced at her with a smile that said, "Yep. This is Jeremiah. Be nice."

Selina snickered. Jeremiah looked up to see them looking at each other with amusement.

"Did I miss a joke?" Jeremiah asked unknowingly.

"No," Selina assured him with a smirk. "It's just nice to meet Bruce's friends."

Jeremiah seemed to stall as if picking up on something. He timidly looked down as his shoes, which until now he thought matched. Alas, one was brown and the other black. In his haste to get over to the manor, he hadn't realized the mismatch. He realized that he looked peculiar. Jeremiah bit the inside of his lip. She was  _laughing_  at him; he knew it. He was the joke.

Jeremiah returned to eye contact, flashing a smile, "Likewise."

* * *

They moved into the kitchen for dinner. Bruce chose the kitchen specifically. He had never liked the banquet hall. It was large, echoing, and garish at times. It was more suited for events than personal meetings. Whenever his family had eaten together, it was in the kitchen. Besides, he didn't want to intimidate Jeremiah with his wealth. The purpose of their meeting was to bring Jeremiah out into society, not showcase his home. Selina was invited along, and, to Bruce's surprise, she accepted.

Once they sat down at the kitchen table, Jeremiah immediately started to ramble on about the battery: what he had improved and how it was just a matter of time before it was finished. Jeremiah hoped that his prowess in engineering would impress Bruce's lady friend, but she seemed unfazed as she and Bruce sat opposite of him. Selina seemed to space out as Jeremiah went into the specifics, while Bruce kept his stoic gaze on Jeremiah. This made Jeremiah appreciate Bruce even more, but question his taste in women. She seemed to find Jeremiah entertaining enough in every other situation except when he was expounding on his expertise. Jeremiah decided he didn't like her.

"This house is amazing," Jeremiah said after he finished his generator talk. He decided to segue into something else. "If I could, I'd love to study the blueprints. I absolutely adore old Gotham architecture."

"Oh," Alfred spoke from the kitchen as he worked on their meal; his voice was hinted with distrust. "I don't know. The blueprints were rather neglected by the previous architects. They might be hard-pressed to find them."

"Oh," Jeremiah said with disappointment. "That's alright. I understand: Gotham's record-keeping is abysmal at best." Jeremiah suddenly lit up. "But what about the cave?"

"The cave?" Bruce questioned.

Jeremiah sought to explain himself, "Thomas noted the structure of my bunker when we met. He was impressed and admitted he had something similar, a cavern that he worked into the house structure."

Alfred glanced over suspiciously. Bruce caught the look in his periphery but didn't acknowledge it outwardly. It was strange, Thomas Wayne was usually such a secretive man; admitting something to Jeremiah must have meant that there was something of a trusting bond between them. This made Bruce feel a little better. Still, he couldn't disclose this secret to Jeremiah—especially since it was a secret he hadn't even admitted to Selina, who was already looking at Bruce with suspicion.

Bruce shrugged, "If he did, we haven't found it."

Jeremiah nodded, "I understand. This place is like a maze itself. The passageways are just harder to see." He shrugged. "Maybe he was just making small talk."

"Doubt it," Alfred interjected from deeper in the kitchen at the suggestion that Thomas Wayne had told a white lie. "This house is well over a hundred years old. I'd be surprised if there weren't a room we have yet to discover."

"Of course," Jeremiah suddenly stood. "Excuse me, where's your restroom?"

"Right down the hall, take a right down the first corridor, third door on the left," Alfred answered without hesitation.

"Thank you," Jeremiah nodded and exited out of the kitchen door. There were a couple of seconds of hesitant silence before Selina spoke.

"Bruce," Selina rolled her attention to him. "You have  _super_  weird friends."

"Selina."

"What, it's true! He's kind of weird."

"He's different," Bruce admitted. "But he's not from the most mundane circumstances."

Selina stood suddenly, "Anyway, Alfred still keep the girl scout cookies in the top right of the pantry?"

Bruce nodded, "Help yourself."

"No," Alfred reprimanded. "Don't 'help yourself.' I've been preparing this meal for four bloody hours; I'm not going to have it ruined by some cookies."

A small argument ensued. Bruce just leaned back in his chair and watched as Selina responded to Alfred's well-constructed arguments by defiantly shoving a cookie in her mouth and allowing the crumbs to fall on the tiled floor. Alfred admonished her in return, which only invigorated her behavior. Bruce smiled as a thought occurred to him.

It wasn't the one Bruce used to have, but it was a family. His family.

"He's been gone for a few minutes too long, hasn't he," Alfred commented suddenly as Selina emerged the victor of the cookie debacle by default. Alfred gestured to the empty chair. Jeremiah had yet to return, and Alfred was busy with the final preparations for dinner. However, there was still a tinge of suspicion in Alfred's voice as he questioned Jeremiah's disappearance. Bruce understood that Alfred was nervous.

"I'll go find him," Bruce stood, excusing himself from Selina. "He probably got lost."

Bruce exited the kitchen and headed towards the nearest bathroom. He rounded the corner and was surprised to find Jeremiah motionless and staring at the wall. Jeremiah was gazing contemplatively at the foot of a large portrait. Thomas and Martha Wayne stared out from the portrait with an almost lively feeling. Bruce softened at the sight. When he was younger, he'd avoided this particular hallway. The memories it stirred had made him sentimental, and, at times, cry. Now, he sought to look at the painting with pride. Jeremiah stared with a look of muted remorse.

Bruce stepped forward, creaking one of the many old floorboards and alerting Jeremiah.

"Oh," Jeremiah looked over apologetically. "Bruce, I'm sorry. I've been lost in thought for a while, haven't I."

"No, it's fine," Bruce approached Jeremiah and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. Bruce looked up at the painting as well. They stood in reverent stillness for a few minutes, looking at the portrait. There was a moment of mutual understanding between the two. Something that couldn't be expressed in words but found a way to bind two people together in wordless knowing.

"Thomas was a rare case," Jeremiah mumbled, breaking the silence. "After I graduated from Saint Ignatius, my paranoia took over. I was convinced my brother would seek me out eventually: alias or not. So, I built my bunker in preparation for that day. I didn't let anyone know where I was and hired several rotatable proxies to keep myself safe. Anyone felt like they could have been an informant or extension of Jerome. Then your father wished to meet me in person. I maintained that we communicate over the phone or through my current proxy, but he was insistent on meeting me in person. It seemed he had heard that I was a child prodigy, and that fact intrigued him. It took some convincing, but I finally allowed him in." Jeremiah seemed to smile a little. "He was very kind: knowledgeable and interesting. He offered me a similar opportunity as you did. He talked nonstop about you." Jeremiah glanced over at Bruce. "How proud he was of you."

Bruce had heard many stories from people talking about how proud his father had been of him. He'd started to hate how all of them seemed to come from the same somber faces and all sound the same. However, Jeremiah's admission seemed genuine. There was a particular appreciation of Bruce's father that he hadn't seen since Lucius. The pride comment was more than just a recycled phrase.

"He actually listened to my problems and cared. I thought with how much I was expositing that I would never be commissioned for the job. But he trusted me anyway," Jeremiah paused for several seconds. "I was miserable after I'd learned he had been murdered. I think that is what drove me further into the ground. If the world could take a kind man like Thomas Wayne, why would I fair better?" He now turned to Bruce. "Bruce, you once told me that you had a chance to avenge your parents, and you did not take it. I—I'm not sure I would have come to the same conclusion. I don't think I would have the restraint you showed."

Bruce nodded solemnly. He could understand Jeremiah's point.

"I'm sorry, I tend to bring the mood down every time," Jeremiah admitted plastering on a smile. "Shall we rejoin everyone else?"

"Yeah," Bruce gestured back towards the kitchen. "You're going to love Alfred's shepherd's pie." He paused for a moment. "Don't mention cookies."

"Why?"

"Just don't."

* * *

The end of the evening had arrived. After a hearty meal provided by Alfred and a few hours of casual conversation, Jeremiah caught a glimpse of his watch.

"I should get going," Jeremiah stood, gracelessly knocking the table and wincing as the platers clattered. "Ecco's been waiting for me outside since I got here. It wouldn't be fair to make her wait any longer."

"Your assistant has been outside, by her motorcycle, waiting, in thirty-degree weather, for three hours," Selina alleged incredulously.

Jeremiah came to realize his mistake, "Oh, I hadn't thought about that." He bashfully retreated. "I told her to wait, so she did. Sometimes I tell her things, and she just  _does_ them to the letter without asking clarifying questions." He seemed to realize he was still at fault for the situation, and his ears turned red. "I'll give her a great deal of time off next week."

Jeremiah felt a pang of annoyance that the lady friend had to point that out. It made him look bad in front of Bruce.

"I'll see you out then," Bruce stood. They walked wordlessly out of the kitchen, Bruce leading the way. After watching Jeremiah through the night, Bruce decided his test was a success. He elected to get to the real reason he wanted to talk to Jeremiah.

"Before you go, I just wanted to let you know something," Jeremiah looked at Bruce eagerly. "The board wants a presentation in a few days on the device before they O.K. mass production," Bruce said as he walked Jeremiah to the door. "They are on the fence about the project. I hold most of the stock, but they are very cautious about how to proceed. I don't know a quarter of the stuff you know about the generator. Would you like to give the pr—"

"Of course!" Jeremiah said, immediately, barely thinking. "I would love to! Absolutely!"

Bruce grinned, "Thank you. Hopefully, we can finally make progress towards the release of the generators."

"Word of advice," Selina had followed them out the door along with Alfred, who went to go fetch Jeremiah's blue overcoat. "Speak in laymen terms when you explain it. I liked what you said about your computer, but I also didn't understand most of what you were saying."

"It's a generator," Jeremiah corrected coldly. Of course,  _she_ wouldn't understand.

Bruce sensed the tension, "I'm sure what Selina means to say is she wishes you luck, but don't get too technical. The way to convince them is through the humanitarian aspects rather than the details."

"Of course," Jeremiah said slowly, taking the overcoat from Alfred. "I'm doing this for humanity, after all." He sighed. "Thank you so much for inviting me into your wonderful home," Jeremiah said equally to Alfred and Bruce. Then he turned to Selina, "I hope I was  _entertaining_  enough for you," Jeremiah stared directly at Selina as he said this.

The facade faltered, and her perpetual smile slipped under his stare. It was only for a second, but Selina felt extra movement behind his eyes, something unsettling. It wasn't something she had ever felt from someone staring at her. She'd had people give her death glares or undressed her with their eyes, but Jeremiah just radiated something far worse: something cold and subtle. Selina had thought that Jeremiah was kooky but ultimately harmless. Now, he was just creepy. What disturbed her more was that Bruce (and maybe even Alfred) didn't seem to detect it; Jeremiah was just that subtle.

Jeremiah shook Bruce's hand with a smile but didn't extend the courtesy to Selina, he instead nodded to her.

"Thank you again so much," He repeated. "Goodnight."

He exited without further delay, politely nodding to Alfred on his way out. Alfred closed the door behind him.

"Well," Alfred said, looking at the only remaining guest. "I could whip up some after-dinner tea or prepare a room for an overnight stay if you wish."

Bruce expected Selina to decline and leave like she normally would, but she surprised him when she turned to Alfred and said, "Sure, tea's fine."

Selina headed towards the kitchen; she crossed her arms across her chest like she was suddenly cold. Bruce and Alfred exchanged glances before following her. Something worried her.

* * *

Ecco pulled up to the entrance of Jeremiah's home and stopped with an abrupt screech. Jeremiah released his death grip on her and dismounted the bike. Ecco couldn't help but admit a swell of excitement she had felt as he had hugged her waist—even if it was to avoid falling off at sixty miles an hour. It made up for the frosty toes and fingertips. Jeremiah straightened his hair, and Ecco took off her helmet.

"Did your visit with Wayne go well?" Ecco asked casually.

"Well, I got to see Bruce's house, meet his complicated girlfriend, his butler, had a wonderful dinner, got an opportunity to show my work in a few days, and got someone on one time with my best friend. Overall," A genuine smile touched Jeremiah's lips as he reminisced on the events of the past few hours, "I had a good day." Ecco returned the smile, and Jeremiah turned towards the door to the complex. "You can go home Ecco, I'll see myself in."

"Are you sure?" Ecco asked.

"I can surely see myself into my own home," He said with a sense of independence and turned back to nod at her.

"In that case," Ecco said. "I'll be infiltrating the cult. They're having a meeting tonight. I may be unavailable for a few hours."

"Why not take the night off?" Jeremiah contended, the guilt of what he made her wait through still weighing on him.

Ecco was touched but undeterred, "My only chance will be tonight. Otherwise, I might not get another chance to see what they are planning. Will that be alright?"

Surprisingly Jeremiah confidently nodded with a sigh, "Yes, wonderful. Goodnight, Ecco. I'll see you tomorrow."

Ecco nodded. She placed her helmet back on, revved her engine, and sped off down the road. Jeremiah straightened his clothes before turning towards his front door. As he did, something caught his eye. He went over to the door and picked up the object.

"Huh," Jeremiah huffed in curiosity. "A package at this hour?"


	6. Jerome's Journal

Jeremiah sat down at his desk, package in hand. It was a simple brown package with a taped top. Jeremiah looked around for an instrument to open it and found his straight razor. He placed it on the tape and paused. It could be a bomb, or a chemical agent, or some other torturous device Jerome's minions had placed outside his home. Jeremiah bit his lip. He felt stupid for bringing it in. How could he be so careless? Jerome always knew that Jeremiah's inquisitiveness outweighed his caution. Now it was inside his fortress. He'd wait for Ecco to return to open the package properly, like their procedure dictated.

Another thought occurred to him. What if this was Jerome's plan: simply exist in the past; make Jeremiah fear opening his own mail for the rest of him life. He couldn't let Jerome win. Jeremiah sighed. He quickly slit open the tape and grasped the sides. He swiftly flicked his wrists, allowing the flaps to open. Then he ducked, huddling under the desk for a good few seconds. Nothing. Jeremiah came back up. Nothing dangerous had happened yet. Now or never.

Jeremiah tentatively opened the package and peered inside.

* * *

"I don't like him," Selina said almost immediately after taking a seat on the counter. Bruce took a similar seat on an opposite counter to copy her despite an "I raised you sit in a chair" look from Alfred.

"Selina," Bruce muttered, offering a chance to explain her statement without coming off to accusatory.

Selina shook her head and shrugged with a sigh, "He seems a little too nutty professor, like he's hiding something."

Alfred didn't speak but shot Bruce a look of agreement.

"Perhaps so," Bruce nodded. "But I can imagine it might stem from Jeremiah's isolation. Jeremiah's been alone for a long time, and secrets have kept him alive."

Selina looked at him sideways, "You, I can understand being a socially awkward mess from being stuck up here in this stuffy mansion your whole life. Him. . . call it a gut instinct, but I don't like him."

Bruce begrudgingly accepted it; he knew not everyone was going to get along with Jeremiah. He was odd and at times unsettling, but Bruce felt that there was a great man in him: one that wanted to do good.

"What I don't get is how he's managed to worm his way in," Selina shrugged. "I thought you'd get a little wiser in the past couple of years, but you're still just a little kid."

"I understand Jeremiah has problems, I'm not blind to that," Bruce said. "I just think I can help him."

Selina stared at him for a second, "Oh boy."

"What?" Bruce questioned.

"That is the most naïve thing I've ever heard you say," Selina scoffed. "He's Jerome Valeska's brother. Crazy tends to run in that family."

"I incline to think that people are more than just an extension of their family," Bruce commented quickly.

"Yeah, but Jeremiah keeps using yours against you. Don't think I didn't pick up on the multiple times he brought up your father over dinner. Emotional manipulation 101 right there."

"It's a commonality we share," Bruce defended as Alfred placed a cup of Jasmine tea next to him. "He knew my father, so of course he'd bring him up."

"Lucius knew your father, but I don't see him getting all bleary eyed every time he talks about architecture," Selina grabbed the cup from Alfred's hands. Alfred kept a respectful distance as the two continued to argue.

"That's different."

"Yeah, Lucius is sane."

"What's really got you bothered?" Bruce asked. "You didn't bring this up when we were alone in the kitchen."

"It's just a feeling I got when he was saying his goodbyes," Selina took a sip. "His goodbye to me carried a little more 'I despise you with every fiber of my being' in it. It was just creepy."

"A feeling, not evidence."

"Because evidence it suddenly important in this discussion."

"Of course, it is."

"Well you seem to be ignoring all of it to be buddy-buddy with him," Selina stabbed.

"Jeremiah is odd bu—"

"Cue excuse because of Jerome Valeska or isolation or whatever," Selina sighed. "Bruce, everyone has excuses, not everyone acts on them. Hell, I'd let you get away with way more stuff if I just spilled on and on about your life." Selina became more serious, "What you're doing is projecting yourself onto Jeremiah. You're actively finding common traits between the two of you to say he's a decent guy, despite the opposite probably being true."

"Selina," Bruce's voice was surprisingly tinted with warning.

"He's become your pet project and damn it if anyone has something bad to say about him." She calmed a little, "I'm just saying that I think he's trying to get to you exclusively—even if  _he_  doesn't realize it. I'm going to tell you now, it's going to be a hell of a lot easier rejecting him now than when he's got his teeth in you."

Bruce was quiet for several moments as his mind worked it out. Bruce understood that she was making valid complaints. Jeremiah was not the most conventional of friends and probably had deep-seated mental issues. However, Bruce couldn't shake the feeling of comradery with Jeremiah. He wasn't sure if it stemmed from their experiences with Jerome, their general introverted behavior, the shared love of Bruce's father, or perhaps something deeper. The thought occurred to Bruce that maybe it was the darker parts of Jeremiah that connected them. The obsessions, anger, tragic circumstances all shared between them; they were like kindred spirits. Maybe Bruce felt, if he could save Jeremiah from his darker self, then it gave hope for Bruce to overcome his darkness as well. It wasn't farfetched, Bruce knew. But, if the relationship were to be built on such dark pretenses, it wouldn't be healthy for either of them to continue their friendship.

Alfred and Selina watched as Bruce remained in deep thought.

"I understand you are coming from a place of concern," Bruce said finally. "But I don't think I should abandon Jeremiah. I'll be careful, I promise, but I can't give up now."

"Thanks for your impute, Selina. I'll just disregard it completely," Selina commented annoyed. "Fine. Your life. Your friends, I get it." She paused for a moment. "I guess I'd do the same if it were Bridget or Ivy. But," she looked at him, "take it from someone who's lost two friends to their darker impulses: there's going to be a point where you're not going to be able to help them. It'll be their choice, and their choice alone that makes them who they are. You'd better be far away from him if he chooses to take up the family business." She stood suddenly, drinking the last bit of tea in a single gulp. "Thanks for the tea and the dinner and for introducing me to your weird friend. I've got to get home now."

"You sure?" Bruce asked, despite their disagreement, he didn't want her to leave suddenly. "It's cold out; there's a guest room you could use."

"Yeah, I'm good." Selina headed for the nearest window.

"Ms. Kyle you can use the front door," Alfred protested as she opened the latch and stepped on the sill.

"What fun would that be?" Selina slipped out of the window into the night.

"Bye, Selina," Bruce called after her.

Alfred sighed and turned to Bruce, "That's enough for one day, don't you think? Ready to retire?"

"You've been listening Alfred," Bruce looked up at him. "What do you think?"

Alfred was quiet for many moments, finally he took a seat on a chair, "I think in some way, Jeremiah reminds me of Karen Jennings from our days investigating Pinewood."

Bruce sat straight at the mention of the name he hadn't heard in several years, "Karen? How so?"

"Well," Alfred "She knew your father in a way that reflects immense trust, she had an extremely traumatic childhood, she was hidden away from the world for years, and no one could see past her differences. No one except for you," Alfred nodded slowly. "Call me an old fool, but I don't want to see that quality destroyed in you. It's very easy for someone to see the worst in others, but, you have always searched for the best. You saw what she could be as a person rather than a monster. You see the same thing with Jeremiah, don't you?"

Bruce inclined his head.

Alfred sighed, "If you believe in the good in him, then I, cautiously, will as well."

Bruce thought about the parallel for a while longer; Karen's fate came to mind, "This time, I  _will_ save Jeremiah."

Alfred smiled solemnly, "I sure hope you do, Master B."

* * *

Jeremiah peered into the parcel. There was a lone book and a letter placed precariously on top. He picked up the letter and noted it was from Arkham Asylum. He grabbed his straight razor and opened the letter. A lone piece of paper stuck out in the letter. He opened it up; it was unceremoniously typed out in a hurried fashion.

_Dear Mr. Valeska,_

_Due to the recent death of your brother, his last will and testament—as found written on a spool of toilet paper—is being acted upon. He gave very specific instructions as to whom his belongings would go to. Ergo, we have sent his personal journal to you along with a few other personal belongings._

_We are sorry for your loss,_

_The Arkham Staff_

Jeremiah scoffed. Even in death, Jerome still had his claws in Jeremiah's life. When would he just disappear? Jeremiah pulled out the book and examined it. It was simple leather-bound book with the title carved into the leather with a razor: "Jerome's Journal. Keep out!" Jeremiah shook his head. He knew should just burn it, destroy it and forget Jerome. His curiosity got the better of him. He found his fingers curl around the cover, opening the journal and skimming the first couple of pages.

The book contained crude drawings of death and destruction. In between there were tiny recounts of daily life at the asylum. He looked at one near the front of the book:

_Dear Diary,_

_Today, Patrick stepped on my shoe. Later, he was found drowned in the toilet during dinner. Karma, am I right?_

There were longer rants too: including a twenty-page description of a dead rat that Jerome had named Otis and Jerome's speculation on how he'd died. After excruciatingly describing an autopsy that he had performed with a plastic fork and a piece of metal that had broken off of the frame of his bed, Jerome concluded that it was Otis' asthma and untreated schizophrenic paranoia caused by unremedied marital problems that finally killed him. There were also ramblings about jokes that his twisted mind had concocted:

_Dear Die-R-ree,_

_If you cut someone's arms off, could you call that disarming them? Trying to come up with a joke in case I ever find myself cutting someone's arms off: "It's disarming to see you like this." Ah, it needs work. Get back to me immediately with an answer._

Jeremiah kept scanning through the book wincing at every dark, disturbing image that popped up. Finally, he came across a section dedicated specifically to Bruce. It had the word "Brucy" bolded written in red ink and fitted with little hearts. There was section after section dedicated to Bruce: most describing how he would end his life,

_Thought about Brucy today. Thought he'd visit or at least write me. We bonded so much in the funhouse mirror. Him, almost killing me, me, almost killing him. He's probably the only guy I'd ever let kill me, again. Total soulmates. Wish I had a lock of his hair. Note to self: cut lock of hair off Brucy next time I kidnap him. Hell, I'll take his scalp._

The next page was an open spot with the words:  _Tape hair and or scalp here!_  The rest were just deluded plans and torture methods for Bruce. Jeremiah felt disgust build up in him. Despite years of fearing he had been Jerome's main target, the opposite seemed to be true. There were no mentions of Jeremiah as far as he could see, but there were mentions of Bruce everywhere.

After that there were sections of envelopes slammed haphazardly in the near rear section. Jeremiah pulled them out. All of them were addressed to Wayne Manor. All of them had some kind of return notice, whether it was returned directly from the manor or stamped by the Arkham staff with a "no postage allowed" stamp. He pulled the oldest, crinkliest one out of the bunch, sliced it open with his razor, and proceeded to read the letter.

_Dear Brucy,_

_How ya been? The last time I saw you, you were punching my face off, literally! Thought you'd really kill me. Guess you didn't have the spine. Don't worry, I'll get you there someday. You see, my favorite thing about you, Brucy, is that, despite your do-gooder attitude and your uncanny babyface, there's a killer in you. I see it. Maybe you don't enjoy it like I do, but you've got the capacity for it. Now all you need is the will. That, or I'll kill you! Anyway, come visit your old pal from time to time so I can pinch your cheeks!_

_See you soon whether you visit me or not,_

_Jerome XOXO_

Jeremiah felt his blood boil. How dare Jerome speak with such familiarity! He'd held Bruce at knifepoint time and time again, threatening his life. The letter itself was attached to another letter from Alfred complaining to the staff about Jerome's ability to have his mail appear in their mailbox. Alfred insisted he was going to burn any subsequent letters that leaked through the system. Still Jeremiah imagined the butler read each letter that came through—just to see if there was a specific threat among the ramblings. The poor man had probably endured more grotesque letters than the ones Jeremiah found in his hand; he doubted Alfred even told Bruce that Jerome was sending him mail. Jeremiah found that he appreciated the old butler even if the redhead had felt his steely gaze on him the entire evening; Alfred's protectiveness of Bruce would ensure his safety after all.

Jeremiah felt a pain strike through his head. The anxiety of the evening was getting to him; a headache had started. He ripped himself from his fixation on the book to stand up. He took this time to take a gander around the room. No one. He knew that there would be no one. It just felt good to confirm it. He sighed with relief and then headed over towards the bottle of bourbon: he was going to need it to weather through this nightmarish book.

* * *

Ecco parked her motorcycle three blocks away from the abandoned warehouse. She had scouted out the area weeks ago. This was where the meeting where Jerome's cult was holding a funeral—or as they called it a FUN-eral. As she got closer, more and more strange looking people seemed to congregate. She needed to blend in. She reached into her bag an pulled out a white mask she had made for herself and slipped it on. She couldn't let her identity trace her back to Jeremiah, so the mask aided the endeavor. It also helped that Jerome's followers were very accepting of mask wearers; in fact, they encouraged it to bring out people's "inner Jerome." She'd actually become quite recognizable in her mask: they dubbed her Mummer—she assumed after some old-fashioned mime.

"Sister Mummer," the doorman greeted her with a smile and opened the door for her.

The funeral was hopelessly pathetic. An empty coffin sat in the middle of the room. Female followers dressed in black groveled at the foot of the casket. Videos from Jerome played on an endless loop on tv set ups. The congregation was filled with colorfully dressed characters all murmuring about the greatness of Jerome. At the moment, a speaker with a large bullring pierced through his nose started to deliver the eulogy. Ecco quietly found a seat at the back of the congregation.

"What is there to say about Jerome that hasn't been said already," bullring started. "Not many of us knew Jerome before he kicked the bucket the first time. But the moment we saw his shining smile on our television set as he defied the odds of the oppressive system, we knew we had found our salvation."

"Here, here," the congregation cheered ceremoniously.

"We congregated for over a year, waiting for his return, and he delivered!"

"Here, here!"

"Then, we threw the damn finest riot this city has ever seen!"

"Here, here!"

"And then w—"

Suddenly, someone stood up among the congregation, "How dare you speak as if Jerome were gone!"

Bullring shook his head and sighed, "Jerome is gone. Brother Dwight is dead and with him the secret of revival."

"We can't say Jerome's dead!" A spiky haired follower exclaimed. "If we do that, we are doubting  _him_! He's probably in Arkham, hidden away in secret by that policeman Jim Gordon! We haven't even seen a grave! His death is misreported, a charade to make us give up hope!"

Some chants in agreement rang out.

"One does not cheat death twice brother," the man at the podium said, "not even Jerome."

"Screw you, unbeliever!" A female follower shouted.

Bullring decided to reign in control of the crowd, "It is Jerome's teachings that guide us! Jerome was simply the vessel for the message," that got the crowd riled as more arguing burst out.

"There is nothing without Jerome!"

The crowd started to fracture. Arguments and chants broke out among the crowd as one by one they fought over the philosophy of a madman. Ecco remained seated, hoping she would be overlooked by the maddened crowd if a fight broke out.

"Silence!" The man at the podium called and the jeering ceased. "What we need to focus on is our future, and our future should be carrying out the will of Jerome regardless of whether he is dead or alive." A grumble of agreement. "Now, Jerome in his wisdom, has left that up to our interpretation, but looking at the events before his death, we should know there are two people we need to kill." He raised his fingers in conjunction with the names, "That goodie two-shoed rich boy Bruce Wayne, and that phony Jeremiah Valeska!"

A wild cheer rang out from the flock of cultists. Ecco remained still.

"But we need to decide which one we kill first! Let's put it to a vote," Bullring called. "All in favor of Jeremiah being the first to be—"

The room exploded into violent chorus of calls for bloodshed. It was like something from a revolution.

"Rip him up!"

"Boil him in acid!"

"Stab him in the neck with a butter knife!"

Ecco remained silent, trying to contain her anger. If anything, they should worship the genius of Jeremiah, not the cheap knockoff psychopath. She had to fight her instincts to turn to the nearest violent cultist and beat them senseless.

"All right, it's pretty unanimous," Bullring smirked. "We will turn our attention to Jeremiah Valeska! Jerome's woefully unenlightened brother cannot be allowed to sully his name any longer!" With everyone riled up, the de facto leader raised his hand in solidarity. "That coward has been hidden away long enough. Let's find the bastard! Let his blood run red in the streets: in the name of Jerome!"

"Jerome! Jerome! Jerome!" The crowd started to funnel out the door in a chaotic mass.

Ecco was pushed out with them. She quickly scrambled away from them as the disorganized mob pushed through the streets. Idiots. They'd probably destroy a liquor store or two, raise some hell, and then get arrested. The disordered nature ensured something, they didn't know where Jeremiah was. That was all she needed to know. She'd lead them on a wild goose chase that trailed outside of Gotham tomorrow. Then they'd hopefully give up.

A twinge of worry went through her. She could just go home like she normally did after an excursion, but now she felt an almost sixth sense of concern for Jeremiah. Something about the whole evening just didn't feel right. She needed to check on him. She turned and headed down the street towards where he bike was parked.

* * *

Jeremiah was surprised to find a moment of deep thought—or at least something close to deep thought—in his brother's ramblings about death and destruction.

_Dear Diary,_

_Thought about death, again. It. Was. Boring. Literally nothing. Just my thoughts. Thought I'd at least see a demon or something—that'd been cool. I thought I was supposed to get a trial. It'd probably go as good as my other trials. You throw scalding coffee in one D.A.'s face and they call you a "public nuisance" and say you need to be "confined in a manner suppressing all violent urges" while in court. Dent was asking for it. His face was right there! It was cinnamon sprinkled decaf! Who wouldn't? Learn something new every day: Dent's got anger issues and a good right hook._

_Thought if I got an afterlife trial, I could see dear old dad and ma testify against me. But how could anyone trust the words of those old sinners? A false prophet and a harlot couldn't possibly get into the good place. Thought I'd get a chance to rail against the system of life! But nothing. Nothing for a year. Maybe they skipped the trial and went to the punishment. Thought there'd be more fire. Maybe some pain. I'd prefer pain to nothing. Maybe they thought I'd enjoy it after a while. Probably true. Thing is, I don't really want to die again. Coming back, it seems I've got a bit of a fanclub, and I can't let the fans down._

_Been thinking about a successor. Someone who can hold down the fort when ol' Jerome kicks off again. Continue the legacy, make me proud. Maybe I should have a kid. Lil' Jerome: that's a good name. He would have my handsome looks too. Only problem is it'll take a while for any kid to grow up. Toddlers aren't great at holding knives, or guns, or dynamite, or really anything. Tiny hands. Big problems. So, I need someone else. Not sure who. Hell, I'll figure it out eventually. Anyway, got to go play with Pengy now. He's adorable when I push his buttons. So mad. "You'll pay for this!" Ha-ha!_

Jeremiah took a break from the book. He looked back in the parcel and was surprised to find a small folder in it as well. He opened it up to find mental evaluations and medical report on Jerome. The reports were fascinating. Jeremiah had always wondered about Jerome's condition, but had not gotten enough time to conduct an examination of his own. The first was by Dr. Hugo Strange on Jerome's pre-first-death condition. Strange noted Jerome's psychopathic tendencies with much glee. He even noted that Jerome enjoyed several of the "therapies" conducted on him—Jerome often laughing through the many procedures. The report also described that Jerome had an incredibly high pain threshold; Strange debated whether or not it was psychological or if there was some kind of genetic link. He also wrote that Jerome was incredibly charismatic: convincing orderlies and inmates alike to doing his bidding with very little effort. Strange concluded his analysis some time later, lamenting Jerome's death and wishing he had "done more" with such an interesting subject.

The next examiner, who proceeded to look after Jerome's mental state after his resurrection, noted several changes. The previously psychotic behavior had increased immensely. There was an emphasis on general bullying, gore, and macabre themes. The examiner noted that Jerome should be transferred to a more secure facility. The next part of the report was filed by a different examiner, noting a complete one-eighty in Jerome's behavior and an emphasis on keeping him in Arkham. Jeremiah shook his head: he'd even gotten his influence into administration. He figured that was why he even held Jerome's book and medical reports and how it ended up at his doorstep rather than Ecco's. Jerome was everywhere.

Jeremiah left the reports, having built up enough fascination to run through the journal again. Finally, he came across what seemed to be another letter. The strange part was that it wasn't on a separate piece of paper, it was just simply in the book.

_Dear J._

Jeremiah blinked at the strange name. A memory struck him suddenly; Jerome used to have trouble pronouncing Jeremiah's name when they were very young. He always called him J. Jerome was writing to him.

_Been a long time. Too long. I would send a letter, but you're kind'a hiding so I guess I'll vent here. If you are reading this after my second death, then I want you to know: I hate you with all my heart. Also, I want this to go to you, so you can read all my intimate thoughts. All my plans they're yours now—except a few, gotta keep something in this dear old head of mine. (Also, don't read the section on the nurse. Those are my personal, intimate feelings, keep out! Pervert!) Been thinking a lot about you. A. Lot. I'm going to find you next time I get out. Figure you're in Gotham, this is where you disappeared after all. This city attracts looneys like you. Thought a lot about what I want to do to you. So many fun possibilities, I feel like a bride picking a wedding dress._

_It should be appripo. Apre pro-a pre pro—is that the word?—there's no spell check—and no one will give me a dictionary after I bludgeon Pete with an encyclopedia. [Apricot!] Anyway, it'll be ironic. Something that shows you for who you truly are: a Charlton—Chariton—A conman. Maybe I'll lock you in an exit-less maze. That'll be funny watching you walk around driving yourself crazy searching for the exit. I can just imagine your face getting all red as you start to become frustrated. Then the fear will set in and you'll run yourself around the maze till you collapse too tired to move or think: the light draining from your eyes. That stupid façade slipping as your true, animal self comes out clawing at the walls. Your nails bleeding red under the strain. Your body wasting away in darkness._

_Fun stuff like that!_

Jeremiah felt sick suddenly. He turned the page and there was a crude picture of a red-haired stick figure being devoured by hyenas. Another had him strapped to a log as it went through a wood mill. Another trapped him in a box of spiders. Those were the tame ones as Jeremiah frantically thumbed through each page, each image a stress inducing nightmare. Finally, he came across words again.

_You'll never get rid of me, J. I'm going to find you eventually. When I do, we'll have fun. And, if by some sad circumstance, you outlive me. Just know ol' big bro Jerome will always be with you. Always._

The words seemed to echo in his head, "Always."

Jeremiah spun around. For a moment he could have sworn the voice emanated from inside the room. He sighed and shook his head. Auditory hallucinations were sometimes the first steps to someone going—no! He was stressed out. He was alone. He was tired. He'd been drinking a whole lot. His mind was playing tricks on him as he felt the need to slip into unconsciousness. He needed to stop, focus on something else. He couldn't, again Jerome had captured his imagination. He sighed and turned back to the book.

* * *

Ecco screeched to a halt at the entrance of the of the complex. She quickly stowed the bike in a little hiding spot and approached the door. She rang the bell. Nothing.

"Jeremiah! It's me."

Still nothing. Ecco sighed, maybe he was asleep. Thankfully, Jeremiah hadn't gone into "lockdown mode" so a quick tap on the electronic keyboard opened the door. She hurried through the maze and came to his office. She opened the door quietly and entered. Jeremiah was in his desk chair, his head resting on the pages of a book.

"Jeremiah," she shook him gently, just to make sure he was alright and not knocked unconscious. "Jeremiah, wake up."

Jeremiah's eyes fluttered open slowly. He pulled himself up groggily and turned to look at her. His eyes widened, and he jumped back into the chair, causing it to roll several inches away. Fear gleamed in his eyes. Ecco suddenly remembered.

"Jeremiah it's me," Ecco removed the mask quickly to reassure him.

"Ecco," Jeremiah breathed clutching his chest. "Don't do that again!"

"I'm sorry."

"Is it morning?" Jeremiah rubbed his eyes weakly.

"No, it's about three A.M. You wouldn't answer the door. I woke you to take you to bed."

"I'm fine," Jeremiah shook his head. He reached over and grabbed a leather-bound book. "I was just. . ." He drifted off as he looked from the book to her. "Something's wrong. You're back before morning."

"Nothing's wrong," She shook her head. She was lying to him again, and it hurt her to do so. He just seemed disoriented and telling him there was a mob searching for him wasn't going to help. She'd tell the truth tomorrow. "I just got a little nervous about your safety, that's all." She looked over the loose pieces of paper. She caught sight of the letters from Jerome. She'd never processed such letters. "Where did these come from?"

"I got a package after you left," Jeremiah grunted brusquely.

"A package—" Ecco was anxious suddenly. "How did they know where to—Why did you open it? We have a system. I get it first just in case—"

"Why? So, you can hide it?" Jeremiah snapped as he gripped tight to the book. "You have  _no_  faith in me."

Ecco sighed, she caught a glimpse of the rocks glass on the desk and the faint smell of alcohol, "You're drunk."

"Yeah," Jeremiah mumbled contemptuously.

"Come on," she reached her hand out, "We'll leave the book here."

He stared at the hand for several seconds, "Ok." He sighed as the anger left him and placed the book on the desk. "It better all be there when I get back."

She led him to his bedroom. He immediately collapsed on the bed and was asleep instantaneously. Ecco simply took a blanket and laid it over Jeremiah. She ran her hand through his hair once before restraining herself; if Jeremiah woke up, she'd be hard pressed to explain her actions. She then returned to the workshop. She found herself drawn over towards the book Jeremiah had been so keen on keeping.

Ecco recoiled when she saw the title: Jerome's Diary. She found herself opening it and skimming it. She shook her head. No wonder Jeremiah had decided to drink. She felt horrible not being able to shield him from this or at least present for him to consult. Every page seemed to be an attack directed at Jeremiah's psyche. One page in particular stood out. All over the page, in various inks, fonts, and sizes, was written one sentence over and over again.

_Let the true J out to play._

The true J? It took only a second for Ecco to think of Jeremiah. What did Jerome mean about the true J? Ecco felt like she should know. The way Jeremiah had acted when he first met her till her present was different. Originally, he'd had an air of confidence about him and an assuredness that didn't seem to end. But after years alone, he seemed to have lost that slowly but surely. He seemed more timid, more reserved. He was hiding his true self from her. She'd always known it. Maybe Jerome knew Jeremiah's real self once. Ecco hoped to meet that true self one day. He just needed to stop stifling himself.

Ecco shook her head. She was taking the word of a mad man, a mad man. Jeremiah was fine exactly the way he was. She snapped the book shut and placed it on the desk. She wouldn't hide it from him, that would just make him angry. She decided to look further into what he was reading, just to see what she would have to remedy the next time she talked to him. She picked up one of the disregarded letters.

_Hey Brucy,_

_Guess whose blood this is!_

There was an arrow indicating to a red soaked corner of the letter. Ecco sighed: it was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm still new and perhaps you, dear reader, have gotten a sense of what this story is about, do you have any sugestions as to what kind of tags to use? Please let me know! Thank you for reading!


	7. Just One—

"Another package?" Jeremiah asked as Ecco walked in with the bow-wrapped box in her hand.

"I found it at my door this morning," Ecco said simply as she placed it on his desk.

He examined it closely; then he glanced suspiciously up at Ecco, "You didn't open it, did you?"

"No," Ecco said simply trying not to agitate him further.

After the night he had gotten Jerome's notebook, Jeremiah had awoken to find the letters and the notebook neatly organized and Ecco asleep in his chair. He'd inquired if she had read the journal; she said she did in its entirety. He became convinced she'd tampered with the journal like she did with the newspaper and that it wasn't completely genuine anymore. This sparked a huge argument between them—it wasn't huge by normal standards, but the fact there  _was_  an argument was enough. Ecco expressed concerns about safety, and Jeremiah argued that she was censoring documents and that he couldn't be sure what was really going on in the world. Ecco didn't raise her voice but assumed her stoic persona and tried to coax him out of his "paranoia." Jeremiah wasn't as contained; he went from peacefully discussing the matter to snapping at her with one or two lines then back to calm. It went on like that for about an hour. The argument led to proclamation: Jeremiah didn't want her opening his packages anymore. So, she wouldn't. Despite this agreement, Jeremiah was still suspicious of her and held a passive-aggressive attitude towards her since then.

Even though it had been a few days since the journal arrived, it still had a grip on his mind. Jeremiah searched through the book every hour when he wasn't working on the presentation. This led to a bit of irritation on Jeremiah's part due to his lack of sleep. He searched it with every known code and even a blacklight—to which he found the remanence many-many unseen blood drops. The evidence of his obsession was in his baggy eyes. Now, on the day of the presentation, he was relatively sleep deprived and irritable.

"I'll get it later. Bruce will be here soon," Jeremiah waved off the package. He returned to packing up the blueprints into a briefcase.

Ecco nodded, "Will I be accompanying you as well?"

Jeremiah thought for a moment, "I think not."

Ecco reluctantly accepted the rejection, "Then the commando butler will be watching you."

"Bruce doesn't need a guardian at all times."

Ecco swallowed. She knew she was going to annoy him by pressing, but she needed to know, "So no one will be watching over you?" Before he could respond, she added. "The cult is directly targeting the both of you at the moment. It would be unwise to—"

"Wasn't it your expert deception skills that caused their search to head to Blüdhaven?" Jeremiah asked with an air of calm and a bite of venom. "Or was that a lie?"

"Jeremiah, I wouldn't lie to—"

"You have before."

Ecco clenched her jaw but said nothing. Jeremiah took that as a sign of resignation from the argument.

"I'll be with Bruce," Jeremiah said quickly. "We'll head to Wayne Enterprises and then head back, there will be guards. We will be safe."

He turned from packing the suitcase to finalizing his appearance. Jeremiah pulled his carroty suit over his dark blue undershirt. He decided to tone down his wardrobe and wear more muted colors, if only for the sake of his credibility in the corporate world. He never really owned a formal business suit with dull colors, but now he wished he did.

"Can you get this?" Jeremiah asked Ecco and pulled at the bloodred tie. "You are much better at this than I am."

"Of course," Ecco stepped up and started to tie. As she did, they sat in awkward silence. Jeremiah watched as she laced the tie back over in a knot.

"Thank you," Jeremiah muttered appreciation for the first time in a few days.

"No problem," Ecco said slowly.

She was about to pull the knot tight when she stopped suddenly. Jeremiah looked down to see Ecco bowing her head. He was confused until her shoulders heaved suddenly. A small sob echoed in the room. Jeremiah was horrified. He'd never seen Ecco cry before. She was always so calm and collected. This sudden switch could only mean that something disturbed her to her core.

"Ecco?" He prodded with a hint of concern.

"I've let you down," she whimpered. "In the past week, I've allowed myself to be controlled, I hurt you, I used you as a shield, I've lied to you, I—I even doubted  _you_  were truly  _you_ for a moment." She shifted and avoided meeting his eye. "I don't think that I can allow myself to be in your emplo—"

She didn't get to finish. Jeremiah pulled her close into a hug. It was awkward and stiff. His wrists only touched her back; her arms pinned to her chest between them. His hands balled into tight fists.

"Ecco, you are the reason I am here," Jeremiah said quickly. "Without your help, I would have never been able to finish the project. There are a number of times I would have died if not for you—if not from Jerome's hand, then my own paranoia. I'm only where I am today because of your endless loyalty. Thank you."

Jeremiah guided her back softly before patting her shoulder, nodding, and turning around. He did so as his face flushed. Despite the anger he had felt because she tampered with his things, he couldn't deny she was the only person in the world who he trusted as much as Bruce. He couldn't let her go; he needed her. He didn't know what he would do if he lost her. He pulled the tie taut.

Ecco just stared at the back of his head before wiping her eyes and resuming her formal posture, "Anything else?"

"That'll be all," Jeremiah said quickly. "Take the rest of the day off." Before she protested he added, "I have faith in your misleading the cultists, and Bruce will escort me to and from the complex. I should be fine."

"As you wish," Ecco sniffled one last time before turning towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Goodbye Jeremiah."

"Goodbye Ecco," Jeremiah returned as Ecco reached for the door. She exited the door into the maze.

Jeremiah turned his attention to packing the final parts for his presentation. The package drew his attention, it was nicely wrapped with a bow on top. How strange. He etched his hand towards the bow but stopped to flip over the tag:  _from Wayne Enterprises_. Maybe it was important to his presentation. He moved to tug at the bow. His hand was stopped by a beep. The sensors went off as Bruce arrived in his car. Grabbing his blueprints, Jeremiah stuffed them in a briefcase before hurrying out the door forgetting the package at his desk.

* * *

The elevator door slid open with a chime, and Bruce and Jeremiah stepped out onto the highest floor in the building. Their drive over had been relatively quiet as Jeremiah rehearsed the information in his head. He knew it all by heart, but he still felt like there could be a moment of forgetfulness if he stood in front of the board. Jeremiah was sure that he was going to experience some form of stage fright. When he was younger and with the circus, he'd been on stage countless times as either a small-scale assistant or as a plant for an act in the crowd. However, he doubted his hammy circus performances would translate well to the corporate world. There was another problem as well; his face. Despite the massive change after his resurrection: the features of Jerome Valeska were what caught everyone's eye. With his face plastered on every newspaper and station, it was no wonder that security reached for their guns before Bruce waved them off with a quick ID card. Jeremiah decided it might have been better to change his appearance to remain anonymous once he came out to live in the world again. Perhaps he'd dye his hair at the very least.

As Jeremiah ran over the presentation yet again, Bruce showed him to a waiting area outside of the glass encased board room. Bruce excused himself to go and warm up the board members with idle chat before the meeting—Jeremiah mused that the sentiment was like the opener to a comedy act. As Bruce was preoccupied with the board members, Jeremiah tapped his knees nervously. He'd checked and double checked his things. Everything should go perfect.

As he sat there, his mind drifted. The tagline Wayne was everywhere, and it stirred old memories. Thomas Wayne: if there had been a man who Jeremiah considered his father, it was him. Jeremiah knew it was inappropriate and that his father was actually the old blind man, but if anyone had ever acted like a father—even for the few hours he had known him—it was Thomas Wayne. Perhaps he felt that way because he'd been about seventeen and at peak loneliness when Thomas first visited him. Despite Jeremiah's renowned intellect, not too many people were keen on funding a minor. Thomas didn't care.

"You have unrivaled talent and a brilliant mind. I wouldn't have anyone else do the project."

Bruce had said something similar when he first met Jeremiah. That was one of the reasons Jeremiah had instantly liked him.

Jeremiah stood and went over to the glass window. He pressed his forehead to the glass and looked down, he was surely about forty something floors high. He hadn't been in such a tall building in his life. The sense of vertigo he got while looking down reminded him of when he used to ride the circus Ferris wheel with—not today, he needed to focus today. He looked out onto the cityscape. Gotham: a city where criminals ruled, and the people scraped by day after day avoiding random death and crime. Despite this, Jeremiah couldn't hate her. Gotham had given him a home, kept him safe. His best friend and most trusted ally both came from the city and there were other, good people living in the hellish streets. Gotham wasn't perfect, but it was enough.

Jeremiah felt his fist clench as he looked down at the twists and turns in the roads. It was all so chaotic. The city had been there for years, but still the streets seemed slanted all wrong or unorganized. He figured this was a fault of the city being founded over a hundred years ago. There weren't really city planners back then. It was like a maze; a bad, unorganized maze. The traffic the streets generated alone was evidence enough. Maybe, he could fix it. That could be his next great project, an infrastructure renovation. He could make everything more efficient; he knew he could. Perhaps such a renovation could even help those in the less fortunate sides of town. Jeremiah felt a surge of interest, there was his next idea to impress Bruce and keep their friendship going longer.

Meanwhile, Bruce was mingling among the few board members he knew. Most were old members he had seen over the years, but a few were new faces in the aftermath of Court of Owls debacle. Of course, not everyone had been associated with the Court, so, there were a few returning board members. Some he was sure had more self-centered or illicit interests at heart, but he just couldn't prove it at the moment. Someone, like the man who was approaching him.

"Bruce," Crowley said in greeting. The man seemed as tickled to see Bruce as the day he'd been chewed out by Alfred. "Are you here to draw out secret societies again?"

"Mr. Crowley, I'm simply here to see that production starts on this project immediately," Bruce said sternly; he knew he couldn't give a man like Crowley any friendly leeway in the conversation. "Hopefully, this presentation will convince even the most ardent detractors."

Crowley glanced over to Jeremiah as he gathered his stuff to bring into the board room. He breathed a laugh. "Bruce, I cannot  _wait_ until I see this." He brushed by quickly to take his seat.

Bruce went back out to get Jeremiah, who returned to staring out at the city landscape with briefcase in hand.

"You ready?" Bruce asked.

Jeremiah jumped a little, "Oh, yes. Bruce you have a way of sneaking up on people."

Bruce gestured for Jeremiah to walk with him. "I'll introduce you, then you'll do the presentation, the board may ask questions, and then it'll be up to the board in terms of voting. It'll be a while, but I have hope this will pull through. They'll probably be a little tough. They're businessmen, and they like their money." Bruce paused. "And don't listen to Crowley. He has never liked me, and, with you being my friend, he is probably going to grill you no matter what."

"I'll do my best then," Jeremiah replied; he was intent on not disappointing Bruce.

They entered the board room and all eyes fixated on them. Bruce started by standing at the end of the long table, giving a brief introduction as Jeremiah set up the blueprints on a clear glass board. Despite Bruce being the primary speaker, most of the board seemed locked on to Jeremiah. Jeremiah could feel their eyes on him as his back was turned; he had to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. Once he finished pinning up his blueprints, he reluctantly turned to face the room. The room seemed to be much larger than it was, the table seemed to be unnaturally long and the board members both too close and too far away. A bit of panic seized his chest. He tried to remain stone-faced as the eyes started to burrow into him; he couldn't let it get to him.

"I'll leave it to you, Jeremiah," Bruce indicated to him—Jeremiah barely registered the call to action but stepped up.

"Good afternoon," Jeremiah opened putting a bit of a smile on. No one returned the smile or the greeting. Jeremiah cleared his throat anxiously. He started presenting his device, stumbling over the words as he began. He was overthinking it; he knew it. Bruce was watching him as well with a kind, supportive expression; that empowered him to move past some of his stuttering. He'd heeded Bruce's advice and kept the schematic, technical talk to a minimum, only explaining the basic features along with anything that might be important. Then he pulled some more humanitarian statistics, explaining how little funding the generator would cost in the long run and the ability to power an entire street block without problem. After that, came questions. Jeremiah prepared for the worse, but, surprisingly, the questions were on topic and simple for him to answer. The figures came out with as much speed as the questions came at him. The board seemed to become less and less transfixed on him the more he spoke and explained the project, and Jeremiah was glad for it.

"You've been awfully quiet, Crowley," a board member noted after another question had been answered.

"I was just marveling to myself, self-sustaining energy, that's quite the proposition." Another board member, Crowley, spoke. "But propositions are just propositions. Why isn't there a working prototype in front of us right now?"

Jeremiah swallowed, "Well, I'm still conducting the final tests. It's worked on the smaller scale; even those are rather cumbersome to pack up and move." He smiled weakly. "I'm just being cautious, so I don't accidentally EMP everything the first time I turn it on."

A quiet murmur built up in the board. Bruce shot Jeremiah a tense glance. Jeremiah realized that joking like that was in poor taste.

"So, it's dangerous," Crowley concluded quickly. "Mr. Valeska, this isn't going to help a hospital if it fries all of their machines."

"Well that's why I'm testing it, so, it doe—"

"But it could happen." Crowley interjected as he leaned forward.

Jeremiah bit the inside of his lip, "Yes, if wired or installed improperly, there could be a chance to create an EMP emission or," he stumbled on a word to say, "self-destruct."

"What do you mean self-destruct?"

"The machine could overload causing a—" Jeremiah hesitated, "—mild explosion."

A murmur went up among the board members.

"Oh! Just an EMP or an  _explosion_!" He leaned back in his chair. "Why wouldn't Wayne Enterprises fund this venture?"

Bruce stepped forward to say something, but he was quickly routed by Jeremiah. Bruce noted a similar turn in demeanor to that of when Jeremiah talked about his brother. Jeremiah suddenly stood tall. He cocked his head to one side and seemed to suppress a deep frown. He clasped his hands behind his back and stared directly at Crowley; there was an emotionless expression as he spoke:

"The key word is improperly installed. Anything can be an explosive if installed inadequately. I can assure you that people are more likely to die in a gas leak or a boiler explosion than from my machine." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Of course, I understand that new technology is quite frightening, alternating current was once terrifying and we all know how that turned out." He straightened. "I assure that my machine will be safe. I have designed it in my home, if I misplaced one wire it could have spelled disaster for me. I have staked my life on it. You can electrocute zoo animals with it all you like, but it's ultimately going to be better for everyone in the end."

Crowley seemed entertained by Jeremiah's sudden defense, "Sure, sure, Mr.  _Valeska_."

He said "Valeska" with emphasis, stressing the importance of his relationship to that psychopath. Jeremiah grit his teeth as his contempt for Crowley froze over.

"Well, I'll address the elephant in the room," Jeremiah insisted as he continued to stare directly at Crowley. "My relation to the very dead psychopath is purely genetic; I can assure that the only thing we have in common is appearance. As for my previous work, I can tell you that I have worked extensively on other projects for companies including Wayne Enterprises under a pseudonym. Considering that there are not several craters in place of the buildings I designed, the conclusion is that my work has a tendency  _not_ to explode or have other nefarious purposes."

There was cold silence as Jeremiah stared down Crowley.

"Thank you, Mr. Valeska." Another member said breaking the silence. "If you wouldn't mind, we would like to discuss the matter in private."

Jeremiah reeled back, realizing he'd been in a sort of battle between one man instead of winning the war with the board. His expression softened, and he turned back to face the board, "Thank you so much for this opportunity."

Jeremiah quickly pulled his blueprints from the board—ripping the corners in the process—and exited the room. He didn't even look at Bruce. Bruce didn't follow him out, but instead resumed his status at the front of the table.

"I assume you all have questions—"

"Like: why are we wasting our time funding a lunatic?" Crowley asked plainly. "Look, Bruce, we know he's your friend and this is your first project in the company, but it would be stupid to continue funding this program if people are going to get hurt."

Before Bruce could speak, a chair woman spoke up: "I think that's out of line, Crowley. I actually researched Valeska's previous work; it's quite genius. As he said, he's worked with the best, including Thomas Wayne."

There was a nod among the older members of the board. Thomas Wayne was like a stamp of approval.

"That old ghost," Crowley mumbled, but Bruce still saw him mouth the words.

"As a man of character, if my father trusted him then Jeremiah has my support," Bruce said shooting Crowley a glare. He returned to the board, "His work speaks for itself, and I believe that's all that matters."

Thirty minutes later: the board members flooded out of the room. Bruce was able to push by them and walk over to the waiting place. Jeremiah had his suitcase packed haphazardly with the blueprint's edges sticking out. He looked down at the ground as Bruce approached.

"I'm so sorry," Jeremiah said his head still down. "That was a disaster. The project isn't going through, is it?"

"On the contrary," Bruce said. "I think they were quite impressed. Once you send in the final schematics and have it tested completely, they'll start mass producing it."

Jeremiah grinned broadly, he stood and clapped his hands together, "Thank you, Bruce. I couldn't have done it without you."

Bruce tried to calm him as he got glances from the exiting board members. "There is a condition." Jeremiah's smile fell. "You will be required to use a pseudonym while you're working on the project; it's a cautionary procedure. I voted agai—"

"I understand," Jeremiah muttered, visibly very disappointed. "It's business." Jeremiah hoped he would have his name finally printed on the blueprints, but it seemed that it would be a while before Jerome's influence was completely out of his life. "I guess there's nothing to do now but head home and finish the battery."

Bruce paused for a moment, thinking about the mixture of happiness and discontent Jeremiah could have been feeling. Bruce couldn't leave him to his alcohol in the labyrinth. That wasn't the way he wished to reward Jeremiah.

"I don't think so," Bruce interjected. "There are a few hours left in the day. Where would you like to go?"

"What?" Jeremiah questioned. "I don't think I could waste your time anymore."

"It's the least I could do," Bruce said. "Think of me as your personal driver. So, where's a place you've always wanted to go?"

* * *

"What do you see?" Jeremiah asked slowly as he and Bruce stared at it.

Bruce shrugged, "I'm not really good at these sorts of things, but I'll try. It's. . . a post-modern interpretation of the idea of disruption. The blue crosses the red in a way to cut it off suddenly, same thing with the purple and black. Why? What do you see?"

"It's a duck," Jeremiah said with a smile.

Bruce shook his head with a chuckle, "Well, I can see that too."

Honestly, it looked like a duck. The painting was abstract enough to literally have been anything and Bruce would just accept it. They seemed to find themselves in the abstract part of the Gotham Art Museum. Bruce assumed there would have been a more concrete, thoughtful answer from Jeremiah, but his actual answer was much more entertaining. They transitioned to the next one and gave their respective thoughts on it.

"It's a mallet," Jeremiah proposed.

"Looks more like a shovel in a pot," Bruce countered.

A sort of game developed between the two, both trying to sort out what each abstract painting appeared to be portraying. They had a good laugh or two as it devolved into a competition for the most surprising answer. Bruce had to stop himself from snickering like a six-year-old when Jeremiah described a tiny black dot on white canvas as: "Crowley's brain one-to-one scale."

"Do all art museums have metal detectors and high security?" Jeremiah asked suddenly at the sight of the guards around them.

"There was a bomb threat a couple of years ago," Bruce shrugged it off. "A thief made off with a painting. So, they've taken precautions with security."

Jeremiah seemed to return to his state of contemplation as he stared at another painting. He seemed to frown slightly, and his eyes glazed over.

"I guess, I don't get art," Jeremiah sighed. "Perhaps it was the idea of it's value and exclusivity that drew me to it."

"If you're looking for exclusivity, you know I can take you to any club you want to," Bruce offered.

"I don't doubt it, Bruce," Jeremiah smiled at the offer. "I figure you know by now that's not my type of fun." Jeremiah made a slanted expression. "I wouldn't call this my type of fun either, but I've never been in an art museum before, so it's interesting. It's fun with you here either way." He seemed to frown, "I just wish they would stop looking at me."

Bruce had noticed it. Again, Jeremiah's face struck a familiar chord with the people of Gotham. Not everyone noticed, but enough did, and then they usually alerted the person next to them. Then they stared or swiftly moved from the area. Bruce caught sight of a man doing a double take at them. He turned to see the curator, who's name and face he vaguely remembered, head in a B-line towards them. Bruce took a step away from Jeremiah and smiled at the curator.

"Mr. Thatch!"

"Mr. Wayne," Thatch ignored the greeting. "I do hope you enjoy your visit here. This time could your company refrain from vomiting into the wastebaskets and taking permanent markers to the bathroom stalls?"

Bruce was relieved that the curator only noticed him and put on some charm, "I assure you Mr. Thatch that my company is anything but trouble."

Jeremiah looked up at the curator and smiled innocently.

Thatch scrutinized Jeremiah's face, "I'm sure he is trouble. I know him from somewhere, probably a tabloid."

"All my friends are vaguely recognizable," Bruce shrugged.

Thatch didn't seem impressed as he looked Jeremiah up and down. Thatch's trained eye lingered on the mismatched clothes with a questioning glare.

"He's eccentric," Bruce tried to find an excuse for Jeremiah's appearance, "and Polish."

Jeremiah found Bruce's attempts humorous and let out a quick snigger. The short burst was enough to jog Thatch's mind and his eyes widened with recognition. He snapped his fingers and two security guards materialized behind him.

"I'm going to have these gentlemen escort you out, effective immediately," Thatch looked directly at Jeremiah.

Jeremiah seemed to shrink as he looked up at the larger guards. Bruce felt an anger boil up in him. He didn't want Jeremiah having to go through the humiliation of being thrown out. So, he decided to let a little "trust fund brat" slip into his persona.

"How dare you!" Bruce loudly exclaimed, drawing the attention of the entire section of the gallery. "This half-assed museum is so ostentatious that it's going to kick out my good friend on his  _birthday_?"

Jeremiah looked frankly confused at Bruce's sudden outburst but quickly caught on to what Bruce was doing.

Thatch was taken aback looking as if he suddenly remembered the Wayne's contribution to the museum, "Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry if I offended—"

"I want to speak to your manager!" He loved doing that to owners, it pissed them off so much.

A controlled annoyance crossed his face, "Mr. Wayne I am the curator-"

"You know what?" Bruce held up a hand to stop him from talking. "I don't care anyway. This place blows. You have some ducks and splotches or something, but it's just not art." He grabbed Jeremiah's arm. "Anyway, we're leaving, on our own."

"Alright," Thatch, still flabbergasted waved off security as Bruce tugged Jeremiah along and out of the building.

"I'm sorry about that," Bruce apologized releasing Jeremiah's shoulder as they walked down the street to where they parked the car.

"That was something," Jeremiah shook his head with a smile. "Never expected to see such behavior from you."

"Well, up until recently, that was me," Bruce admitted.

Jeremiah nodded, "I've seen a few tabloids. After meeting you though, I thought it was all propaganda."

"Unfortunately, not," Bruce shook his head. "So where were you thinking about going next?"

"Next?" Jeremiah asked, surprised there was an addition to the original offer. "Oh, well—"

* * *

* * *

"This is probably the best spot," Bruce said as he sat down on the edge of the building overlooking the west harbor in the dying light. He had taken care to change out of his business attire and into a dark turtleneck since they were on a more wayward side of the city. "You'll just have to excuse the fog horns and the smog from the chemical plant."

"It's perfect," Jeremiah said taking the box of Chinese takeout they had picked up on the way out. "How do you know it's the best place to view it from? It doesn't seem special."

"I actually lived on the street for a while, by choice," Bruce said. "Selina took me in and showed me this place."

"Really? Imagine that."

They continued to talk as they sat at the edge of the building. The talk of the generator—Jeremiah's typical icebreaker topic—was left untouched. Instead he started to talk about more casual subjects. Bruce was thankful for that as talk concerning work or Jerome seemed to depress Jeremiah. Having just a casual conversation without the inclusion of the serious subjects that bound them together seemed to solidify their friendship.

It had been a long while since Bruce had a typical friendship. He had Selina, but their relationship changed as often as the wind—flexing from friends to not-friends to more-than-friends in short bursts of time. He cared for her more than anything, but he would be lying if he said she didn't confuse the hell out of him sometimes. Sometimes it was just stressful to maintain what relationship they did have. He'd also had other people he had hung out with, but they were white noise, a distraction from his inner thoughts and feelings. There were always adults like Jim, Lucius, and Alfred, but the fifteen year and above age differences always made them sink into the roles of more paternal-guardian figures—whereas Jeremiah's five-year gap seemed irrelevant in how he treated Bruce. Jeremiah felt like a genuine average friend. It felt normal. Bruce finally had something that was semi-normal in his life. He didn't come from the most normal of circumstances (Bruce figured that would be too much for the universe for him to have a normal friend from normal circumstances), but their friendship seemed stable. There didn't seem to be any trick or ulterior motive, and Jeremiah didn't seem to want anything from him. They were simply friends.

Suddenly, they quieted as the reason they sat up on the roof presented itself. The sun set in the distance slowly over the mainland; the colors distorted by the smog adding an extra purple to the array of pink and orange in the sky. Jeremiah marveled at the colors for the brief two or three minutes before the sun sank over the horizon.

"It's been about six years since I've seen a proper sunset," Jeremiah smiled. "Thank you."

"No problem," Bruce returned the smile. Since Jeremiah had provided some form of normalcy to his life; Bruce felt it was only fair to return the favor.

Jeremiah stared out at the distant Gotham mainland. He suddenly squinted as a beam of light shot into the air in the distance followed by another and another. Then the beams of light swirled together along the clouds.

"Is that—" Jeremiah stood up suddenly not minding the edge and the fall below him. He was looking in the distance as beams of light now streamed up from the fairgrounds.

"A circus is in town," Bruce confirmed what Jeremiah was thinking.

"It's not Haly's though," Jeremiah observed and made a circle with his hand like a spyglass. "The tent color is all wrong, and it's much too small." He seemed contemplative, straining his lip into a line as if not knowing what to say. Bruce was about to alert him to the fact that he was standing very close to the edge, when Jeremiah turned to him. "Bruce, you've shown me so much about your daily life. Let me return the favor. I think I know where I want to go next."


	8. —Bad—

Bright garish colors stood out among the Gotham night; not even the usually dour colors of her soil could drain the atmosphere that the circus projected. Jeremiah stood at the border of the circus grounds like he was standing at a precipice. He shifted his weight shifted uneasily. Already he could feel the nostalgia welling up in him.

"Are you ready?"

Jeremiah almost forgot Bruce was with him.

"Oh," Jeremiah shook his head to alleviate stressful thoughts. "Yeah, I guess I just need a moment. There are a lot of memories stored here."

Suddenly, Bruce's phone rang, "Well, take your time. It's probably Alfred."

"Sure, go ahead." Jeremiah mumbled as he shoved his hands into his pockets and continued to stare deep into the circus lights.

Bruce stepped off to the side, where there was less noise, and opened his phone.

"Master Bruce, I assume things have run a little bit long," Alfred said—there was a touch of worry, but he tried to hide it. "Everything alright?"

"Yes, I apologize, Alfred. I should have checked in sooner."

At that moment, a loud bell went off from one of the attractions.

"Bruce," Alfred paused for effect, "you're not at the meeting are you."

"No, that ended a while ago. I've decided to escort Jeremiah around town." Bruce prepped for the response to the next statement. "We sort of ended up at a circus."

"A circus?" Alfred seemed a little flabbergasted. "Not to beat a dead horse, but you remember what happened the last time you went to something like a circus."

"I know," Bruce said affirmatively. "But it's where Jeremiah grew up. I think he wants to reconcile with his past."

"May I remind you that you are not a psychologist despite the many desert-dry books on psychology you've read. You know, usually people don't reconcile with their pasts when they meet with their friends." Alfred sighed. "Just don' go in any mirror funhouses with him, alright?"

"I was thinking about the Tunnel of Love myself," Bruce said with a sarcasm that rivaled the butler.

"Cheeky, aren't we Master B. Be careful and check in with me after an hour."

"I will."

Bruce snapped the phone shut and turned back to Jeremiah. He was still waiting and staring ahead.

"Ready?" Bruce greeted.

"Watch your wallet," Jeremiah warned absentmindedly as he took his first step onto circus grounds.

An overwhelming amount of nostalgia washed over Jeremiah as he walked down the garish aisles of games and concessions. Here it seemed that Jeremiah tended to blend in more. No one recognized him as Jerome's twin. Jeremiah figured the recognition stemmed from his color contrast clothing and the fact he stood out among the average Gothamite with their soot inspired clothing of choice. Now he was just one in a crowd of color.

Despite the big tent in the middle of the venue, the circus had a much more carnival vibe, which became immediately apparent with the sickeningly mixed smell of caramel, popcorn, and corndogs. There were more food vendors, amusement rides, and game booths than the average circus venue. The tent might have been smaller from farther off, but the expanse of attractions around it made up for the circus in size—possibly making it the same size as Haly's. Nonetheless, it still struck that familiar chord of reminiscence. He smiled as everything—even the loud carny noises—just seemed at peace with him.

The opposite was true of Bruce. He hadn't realized how much the night of the awakening had affected him. He had been horrified by the event days after it had happened. He'd wake in a cold sweat, the distorted music still playing in his head. The faces of the people he had seen tormented still fresh in his mind. He would reach to his jaw, checking if the dry blood in the shape of a frown was still there, or search his forearm for inch long staples—they were never there but it didn't stop him from checking. Then he'd throw the covers off and hurry out of his room. He'd jog his way over to Alfred's room and etch it open to let hall light in. Only when he heard the butler's rhythmic peaceful breath did he finally drop to the floor with a sigh of relief. He was still there; they lived through that night. It was over. Alfred would later find Bruce asleep propped up against the door.

Bruce shook his head. That was long ago, he should have been over it. The circus around them seemed to be bringing it back in full force. Here he was again at a circus with a Valeska. He couldn't help but feel that, if he attended the circus alone, things would have been less stressful. He knew he couldn't blame Jeremiah. He was as tormented by Jerome as anyone else. As Jeremiah searched around the circus, Bruce could only imagine the type of thoughts that were going through his mind.

Jeremiah stopped abruptly. Bruce almost ran into him as Jeremiah was distracted by one of the side acts. The snake charmer was a beautiful woman—too beautiful. She danced and moved her hands as the snake seemed to obey her completely. Men cheered for her as the snake coiled around her and she flashed a stunning smile at them. Just by the look of her one could tell she was the other half to many broken hearts. Jeremiah was disgusted.

Flashes of a woman beyond her prime, yet still attractive to older men, enter his mind. A vindictive woman he dared not call his mother. One part hated her, one part felt obligated to her. Despite her incredibly bad decisions in life, those choices were the only reason he was alive. Whether that was a good thing—he couldn't decide. Then again, was that a good thing if someone like Jerome came too? They were mistakes; she made sure that they knew it daily.

Bruce noticed the blank stare Jeremiah had slowly form into a frown.

"Jeremiah?"

"My mother was a snake charmer." Jeremiah explained. That was all he said, leaving everything else to the imagination.

Bruce tried to input, "I heard what happened to her."

"She deserved it," Jeremiah shook his head, "And she  _didn't_  deserve it. . . I guess there is such a thing as loving and hating someone at the same time."

He pressed on, tearing his eyes from the snake charmer. Other things seemed to bring out memories in Jeremiah. Specifically, memories of  _him_.

Jerome hadn't always wanted Jeremiah dead on sight. From ten years old and younger, Jerome and Jeremiah had been relatively close. As he walked down the main thruway, different carnival games charged different memories. The sight of a ring toss game roused the memory of him running a booth like that once. The usual person had been sick, and it was up to the nine-year-old to accept money and let them play. Jerome helped as well—in a way that he thought would help. Jeremiah manned the finances and Jerome, being the more vocal of the two, barked for people's attention. Of course, he got people's attention any way possible, including insults, resulting in an altercation between him and a much larger man who had not been too pleased to be described as "shrimp arms." Jeremiah knew to keep quiet about such things; Jerome often got in over his head with insults. Jerome got popped in the jaw—dislodging his final baby tooth, which was one of his incisors. Jeremiah remembered Jerome smiling at him with the gap in his teeth and blood in his mouth. He remembered Jerome talking about how he was going to add it to his collection of teeth in the mason jar at home—the tooth fairy neglected to come to their caravan home, so baby teeth piled up. Jeremiah remembered smiling along with him and telling him he would probably work better as the guy on the dunk tank—which he did a few times just to get in a good number of insults without being pummeled. Yes, there was a time when the two joked like normal brothers. A much better time.

The memory panged in his chest. It hurt to think that version of Jerome was gone and replaced by something truly horrifying. He didn't like to think about it. He needed to replace it with a new memory.

"Want to try the ring toss?" Jeremiah turned with a smile and asked Bruce.

Bruce shrugged, and they both attempted the game. Neither of them, out of the three chances, were able to get the ring over one of the bottles. Bruce was honestly annoyed. He practically heard Alfred in the back of his mind: "Master B, what's the point of me showing you how to throw knives if you can't get a bloody ring around a bottleneck." It had to have been rigged. The bottle necks were just slightly too wide for the ring to fit around. Still, he felt like he should have been able to do better than the average person. Jeremiah didn't seem to notice; he was having fun regardless.

They continued down the main circus way, stopping for cotton candy. There was the whir of feedback, and Jeremiah snapped over to a small stage where a barker was getting ready to introduce a side-magician act.

Bruce sighed as yet another reminder of Jerome's impact on his life appeared, "I hate magicians."

Another memory stirred for Jeremiah. Eight years old: Jerome pushed him on a similar side stage as a minor event was about to happen. A small crowd had gathered and stared at him expectantly. Jeremiah took the mic. It produced a wave of feedback.

"A-rabbi, a-priest, and-a-pastor-walkintoabar," Jeremiah smiled weakly as he spoke into the mic a little too fast; his words blurred together at the end. Over on the side, Jerome was suppressing a laugh along with some of the other circus kids like John Grayson and Mary Lloyd. Jeremiah hadn't been threatened, more or less coerced by the weight of a dare. It started when Jerome told a crass joke in front of the other kids. Jeremiah sighed and explained to them that it was "clownish, lowbrow humor" and not funny in the slightest.

"Well, if you think you're so funny, Jeremiah—"

Jerome had dared him in front of all the other kids, who were immediately on board. Jeremiah sometimes felt a little alienated from the others—he often seemed to be the butt of a joke being one of the quieter kids among a group of vivacious, carny extroverts. Now he was onstage, alone, with little to no script (usually he had a script onstage), and he knew they wouldn't let him off until one joke was told.

The joke was falling flat at his feet with the butchered delivery—he laughed nervously as he said it, "Andthe-bar-ten-der-says. . ." he blanked. His mind went blank as he stared out at the wash of disinterested faces. The crowd seemed to swallow his memory—oh God—what was the punchline? He felt panic seize his chest as his breath went through the mic and echoed awkwardly. He needed to start again.

"A-time-traveler-walksintoabar." NO! That was the punchline! He was supposed to say the bartender's line about time travelers then introduce the time traveler. Stupid! His shoulders seemed to rise, and his head sank into them. The moment seemed to last forever as the faces seemed to become more and more confused and agitated. The silence only broken by the snickering from his "friends."

Jeremiah decided to try again.

"Boo!" A shock ran through Jeremiah as he slowly craned his neck to see a man, who seemed to have had too many drinks, mocking at him. "Get off the stage!"

Jeremiah's face turned the shade of red of his hair. More hecklings and boos started to crop up as he stood petrified. He tried to smile, to indicate that he was trying to be funny, but the crowd wouldn't have it.

"Where's your mom, kid?"

"Get off the stage loser!"

"Hey carrottop, can we get onto the real show?"

"If I wanted to see a snotty brat blow lines like this, I'd be at my niece's talent show."

The boos kept coming at him, and finally someone hurled a corn dog at him. He didn't know what to do. He just stood there silently taking the verbal bombardment from the crowd. He didn't cry; he couldn't. A shock of calm rivaling a porcelain doll fell across his features even though he was still internally panicked. He felt a frown build up as his mind raced.

"The hell? Get off the stage, Jeremiah!" The actual person supposed to be using the mic rushed on stage. Jeremiah snapped out of his trance and dropped the mic sending wave after wave of feedback into the crowd. He sprinted off stage to where Jerome was guffawing at him. It only took half of a second to tackle Jerome to the ground and letting out his frustration with a few brutal hits.

"I was just kidding!" Jerome cried again and again until John dragged Jeremiah off him. Jeremiah then ran off out of the circus until he came upon a lakeside. He sat there the entire night, pondering everything. He was so embarrassed he thought about just running away. It was the biggest fight he had gotten into with Jerome at that time, and he didn't forgive him the next day despite Jerome's chipper forgetfulness—he usually forgot fights they got into within minutes. Jeremiah soon began to resent Jerome for that one night, as well as the others. He'd even get back at the people like the ones who jeered at him—and he did in the form of concocting mazes that they never quite solved. Then they looked just as stupid as he had on stage. As for him and Jerome, things were very different from then on.

It was that event where Jeremiah learned his most valuable lesson: the world was harsh and unforgiving, and it lent very few real friends. Friends like Bruce were one in a million. He appreciated him greatly; he needed to show that somehow.

Suddenly, Jeremiah heard an argument break out in the crowd, and it snapped him back to reality.

"Cheat!" Someone called as they stormed off from a game stand. Jeremiah quickly stepped over to the booth; Bruce following in toe. Just as he had suspected, a group of bottles were stacked on top of each other and a line of weathered baseballs sat in a row.

"I know how to win this one, there's a trick to it, you see," Jeremiah stepped up to the booth.

"Try your luck," The game operator, gestured to the pins, acting as if he had not just been called a "cheat."

Jeremiah quickly paid the vendor and waved off a well-intentioned complaint from Bruce about payment. Jeremiah took the first ball in hand and tossed it up and down to get the weight of the ball. He stretched his arm for a moment, then he threw. He missed completely.

The vendor laughed, "What's that? You said, you got a trick? Unless the trick is pity, it's not working."

Jeremiah's lip thinned out into a line as he took the second ball. Again, he tossed it in the air for a second. Then his arm whipped around, and the ball smashed into the bottle. Not a movement. It sounded like the ball had hit a cement board. The ball had clearly gone at least eighty miles an hour—it should have been enough to knock over the bottles, that or they were weighted to the point where no one had even a chance of knocking them over.

"As I expected," Jeremiah shook his head.

"What are you implying?" The vendor taunted. "Don't think I'm cheatin' just because you can't throw the ball worth a damn."

Bruce glanced at Jeremiah, expecting to find Jeremiah's cold expression. Instead, Jeremiah just picked up the final ball and smiled at Bruce.

"I think it's about time I used my trick," Jeremiah spoke in a strange tone, as if he were talking on children's programming. "I'm sure this time I'll get you that prize." He winked quickly.

Bruce raised an eyebrow at the sudden suppression of his anger. Jeremiah was up to something.

"Whatever it is, can you stop flirting and get on with it?" The vendor jeered.

Jeremiah ignored the taunt and went into an elaborate routine. First, he spit on the ball, much to the vendor's annoyance. Then he polished it with his sleeve, shining the grimy ball as much as possible. He tossed the ball up three times, counting each time aloud and spinning in a circle while it was up in the air. Then he took the ball and winded up a throw with big circular motions. At this point, the vendor lost patience.

"Look are you going to throw or—"

_THWACK!_

The vendor stumbled back and fell over. Jeremiah had released the ball, sending it crashing into the man's face. Jeremiah's arm then shot up and grabbed a stuffed dog and the other grabbed Bruce.

"Come on!"

Jeremiah quickly sprinted away from the game. Bruce was trailing behind, wondering if the man was alright. Once he caught sight of the death glare in the man's eye, the bloody nose, and the tint of purple and veins in his face, Bruce decided it was not wise to stick around. Bruce raced after Jeremiah, who rounded a corner as they came to the outskirts of the circus where the Ferris wheel stood. Jeremiah finally stopped running. He was out of breath to the point of gasping even though they had only gone a little way. Bruce was barely breathing hard after years of training. Jeremiah held up the prize in victory and gave a small whoop.

"That was quite the endeavor." Jeremiah panted with a smile. "You see, you have to completely miss the first throw to make them think—"

"Why did you do that?" Jeremiah straightened at the sudden serious tone resonating from Bruce. He looked up to find Bruce's eyebrows furrowed and a stern face—not quite scowling, but close enough.

"Why did I?" Jeremiah was confused. He didn't have a reason other than to show off to Bruce.

Bruce seemed taken aback by Jeremiah's lack of understanding, "You didn't have to throw the ball in his face."

"Oh," Jeremiah muttered as he understood now. Bruce thought he'd been in the wrong. There was that concern with "justice" again. Then maybe he could "justify" it. "Well, he was cheating. There was no way to knock it over. The only way to win was to do that." Jeremiah shrugged. "Also, he was being rather rude, I think."

Bruce didn't hesitate, "Yes, but he didn't deserve a broken nose."

"His nose broke?" Jeremiah hadn't noticed. He must have gotten much stronger over the years despite the general lack of exercise.

"That's not the point."

Jeremiah found himself snapping a bit, "Then what is?"

"That was cruel."

Jeremiah blinked. Cruel. He hadn't thought of that. He wanted to get something for Bruce. It didn't really matter how he got it. He started at the beginning of the problem and reached his goal. Basic problem solving. Simple. The cruelty hadn't entered his mind as a factor. It was simply a means to an end.

Jeremiah held out the toy to Bruce as a peace offering.

"I don't want it," Bruce said simply.

Jeremiah shifted anxiously, his expression changed from confused agitation to a mild frown. Then his eyes dropped, and he sighed.

"I'm sorry."

Bruce predictably softened at the sign of remorse. He reached out and took the stuffed animal from Jeremiah. Jeremiah smiled for a moment only to have it replaced with a mortified expression as Bruce handed it off to a passing child. The child looked up for a moment and took the animal without further thought.

"Thank you!" Then the child ran off into the crowd.

Bruce caught on to the strange reaction as Jeremiah seemed to glower after the child. Bruce felt suddenly very distant from Jeremiah at the sight of it. Then Jeremiah caught sight of the perplexed look and changed his expression on a dime—softening it back into remorse. It was almost like Jeremiah wasn't  _feeling_ guilt at all for what he'd done.

It was a trait of Jerome. Bruce suddenly started to pick up on certain mannerisms that reflected the dead Valeska. Jeremiah seemed to have a disregard for morality, he didn't seem to feel guilty for stealing from the vendor or hurting him. He seemed more upset that Bruce had given away the prize than anything else. The cruelty of throwing the ball in his face was lost on Jeremiah, he seemed to only reflect the concern after Bruce did: a classic sociopathic trait. Thinking back, Bruce couldn't remember a time that Jeremiah seemed concerned for someone else's safety other than his own. In fact, his treatment of Ecco on the night he'd been at Wayne Manor seemed to reflect his lack of concern or further thought when it came to how she was sitting in the cold. At the very least, Jeremiah's circle of concern was narrow—possibly even exclusive to Bruce if Jeremiah only cared what he thought.

Bruce shook his head. He was simply feeling this way because of the circus. The place reminded him of the Night of the Awakening. His mind was actively trying to link the two events, and he was childishly putting Jeremiah in the place of Jerome. There were similarities between the two brothers, but that probably spawned from their shared time together. Jeremiah was miles away from tormenting people in a sadistic carnival. Jeremiah would never—

_When are you going to stop making excuses for him?_

The thought crossed his mind in a flash. It pinged in his head as the voice of Selina. This was the cautious voice that Alfred had instructed him to notice. It was now pointing him away from Jeremiah and his friendship.

Bruce's phone rang suddenly, saving Bruce from having to think about it more, "It's Alfred, he's checking up on me."

"Oh alright, go ahead," Jeremiah nodded at the sudden distraction. It was starting to annoy him how much Alfred hovered over Bruce. He was eighteen after all and with a trusted friend. Shouldn't that be enough?

Bruce turned away from Jeremiah and paced off to chat with Alfred. Jeremiah was left alone with his thoughts. He turned back towards the circus feeling entranced again by the colors of his childhood. He wandered away from where Bruce had left him. He wandered through the different stalls, getting lost in memory after memory. Most of them were fine enough—some small adventure that he had with his brother. Others contained memories of fights they had. Jerome slowly becoming more and more psychotic as he aged. Distancing himself from Jeremiah and finally devolving into outright violence against him. It was a sad progression—one which he wasn't sure he knew where to begin.

"Jerome?" Jeremiah jumped at the sudden word and whirled to face a circus vendor surrounded by candy. The man searched his face, then his eyes lit up with recognition. "It's me, Abernethy. How have you been? How's your mother?"

Jeremiah recoiled from the man, like he'd been shocked. Then he stood still, mulling over what the now confused vendor had said.

"I'm sorry," Jeremiah said as his mouth opened and closed. "I'm not who you think I am."

The vendor took a moment, then his eyes shined differently, "Jeremiah is that you?"

Jeremiah glance side to side quickly, as if expecting someone to be sneaking up on him, then nodded silently.

The older man smiled at him, "We all thought you were dead, like you were taken by one of your mothers. . . Friends. She never told us otherwise, just told us you were gone an' that was that. Jerome was distraught."

Jeremiah finally remembered something, "Oh, Abernathy! I remember you." He was one of the vendors and muscle from when he was still living at Haly's. He used to sell candy, and, by the looks of the wares around him, he still did. "You're no longer with Haly's?"

"Nope, this circus pays vendors better, got out about seven years ago." He brushed it off quickly before turning back to Jeremiah. "But, what about you? You're wearing fancy clothes with uncracked glasses."

Jeremiah felt a sense of welcome from the man, only a circus man would call what Jeremiah wore "fancy." He continued, "Well, it's complicated, but I guess you could say that I was abruptly moved to live with my uncle. I'm an engineer, now."

"I'll be. You design Ferris wheels or something?"

"No. More corporate things than anything else."

The man slapped his palm on the wooden booth, "There you go with those big words, you were always book smart. Good for you. Your mother know? How's she doing?" Jeremiah felt a sense of dread wash over him. "I've been meaning to catch up with the nice pretty lady."

Jeremiah was surprised that Abernathy didn't know about his mother or about Jerome. He thought at least Jerome would be news outside of Gotham. Then again, riots, terrorist plots, and psychopaths seemed to be a weekly story in Gotham; so, nationwide it'd just be another case of white noise Gotham crime. Then he remembered that circus people tended to stick in the circus—in action and in mind. Nothing seemed to exist outside of it when you lived in a world of carny color and whimsy.

"She's dead," Jeremiah said brusquely. "Jerome murdered her. It was some time ago."

The vendor recoiled at the sudden news, "I'm so sorry Jeremiah. I wouldn't have suspected that Jerome would ever-"

"Jerome was the prime suspect," Jeremiah snapped suddenly. "He had every motive to kill her. Jerome's madness was well known; the only reason the investigation took more than five minutes is because everyone was playing dumb."

The vendor frowned at the sudden outburst, "I.. . I don't doubt it, Jeremiah. Jerome was a troubled boy." He sighed. "Seemed just yesterday that you two were causing trouble for someone or another."

Jeremiah shook his head, "We didn't get into too much trouble, and the trouble he was involved in was tormenting me."

"Wasn't how I remember it," he scratched his chin. "You two had your longwinded spats, but, at the same time, I remember you two getting in equal amounts of trouble."

"I don't recall anything like that."

It was a lie. Jeremiah was good at many things, but he had never possessed the charisma to tell a convincing lie. A great difference between him and Jerome.

"I'm sure." Abernathy said as he scrutinized Jeremiah. "Sure, Jerome was the most notably delinquent, but you were still there. Just didn't get caught. You were more, subtle."

"Absolutely not," Jeremiah snapped, this time, he was trying harder.

"You were always too smart for your own good, Jeremiah," Abernathy didn't show a sign of belief. The man tried to continue the good-natured conversation, but Jeremiah's defensiveness was making it difficult. "Always had some plot or scheme you were up to."

Plot. Yes, he had conducted a few plots, but nothing major. They were all in self-defense. He knew that it was only a matter of time before Jerome and the other kids humiliated him after the comedy act incident—so he took it upon himself to ensure that it didn't happen. Jerome was the ringleader and he needed to have no contact with his subordinates. So, Jeremiah concocted a couple white lies supported by evidence and spread them out among the others. Simple things really—a stolen kit of clown makeup—a couple of broken performance batons—telling John Grayson that Jerome had eyes for Mary Lloyd—and pieces of underwear from every woman in the circus stuffed into his dresser. Jerome was effectively ostracized as a deviant, distressed boy from the rest of his gang. This insured that Jeremiah would never again have to suffer that kind of gang insult.

The older man seemed to remember something, and he looked at Jeremiah with a much more damning glance, "Yeah, you loosened the bolts on the Grayson's trapeze one time. I thought you were just playing with it until the same one broke later that day. If they hadn't been practicing with the net that day. . ."

His voice trailed off and Jeremiah remembered the occasion. The Grayson boy—probably the second most annoying person in his age range—had made fun of him for some reason or another, that was lost to his memory. He remembered the wrench in his hand as he loosened the bolts and the thoughts running through his preteen mind. It hadn't been emotional. He thought of the velocity of which such a fall would reach. Whether or not it was deadly. Whether or not he was going to get away with it. He hadn't sabotaged a specific one; he thought whichever Grayson to fall would be best left up to fate and equally as hurtful. The thoughts were so cold, like he was solving a puzzle. He hadn't realized the implications of his actions—no—he  _knew_ what could happen if they fell. He just didn't care.

"No," Jeremiah swallowed and insisted harshly; he didn't know how to feel about the memories that sprang up at him. "I don't think I ever did that. Jerome  _loved_  to impersonate me from time to time, so it could have been him."

Abernathy took a long look at Jeremiah, it was like he could see his thoughts. He then shook his head, "I thought maybe your absence would have changed you. I see it in your eyes, you're the same as you were then. Always trying to hide away your darkness and letting it out when it suits you. I always thought that impersonation bit worked both ways."

"There is nothing about that maniac even worth imitating." Jeremiah found his fist clenched. He didn't feel overly emotional about the accusations, he was annoyed that Abernathy seemed to know something he didn't. "Be careful, with your next words."

"Is that a threat, Jeremiah?" Abernathy questioned.

"Take it as you please.," Jeremiah studied his with a cold, calculating glare.

"Jeremiah," they both turned to see Bruce approaching. "Lost you for a moment."

"Bruce," Jeremiah lost the cold aggression in his voice. "Just catching up with an old friend."

Bruce nodded and turned his attention to the older man, "Nice to meet you."

The man turned to Jeremiah, "Quite the friend you've got there, Jeremiah. You move onto white collar crimes?" Bruce furrowed his brow in confusion. "Or perhaps you're just working this kid for money. Better keep an eye on that watch around here, kid."

"Jeremiah is a friend," Bruce said, he wasn't sure of the situation, but he didn't like that Jeremiah was being slandered yet again.

"That's what he wants you to think, trust fund. I've known Jeremiah since he was a kid. He'd like to think he is the innocent one in his family, but that just isn't the case."

Jeremiah remained quiet, but glared daggers at Abernathy.

Bruce spoke up on behalf of Jeremiah, "In all due fairness, I've known Jeremiah for a couple of weeks and I can assure you he's a—" Bruce uncharacteristically stuttered, like he was trying to convince himself of what he was saying. "—very moral person."

There was a confused concern in Bruce's expression. Jeremiah caught the split second of doubt and was wounded deeply. He gritted his teeth as even Bruce seemed to be doubting him now. Everyone around him seemed the doubt him.

Abernathy picked up on it as well, "Look kid. I'd get away from him if I were you."

There was a whirl of wind from besides Bruce. He looked over to see Jeremiah had again vanished into the crowd, he only caught a glimpse of carrot orange before disappearing. Bruce forgot the vendor and gave chase after him.

The once inviting lights now glared at him with judgement as Jeremiah pushed through the crowd. He didn't have a direction; he just needed to leave. Soon he found himself among the caravans, his outlandish suit helping to blend in with the circus. Another memory sparked as he witnessed a trailer that looked eerily similar to the one he was born in. It was the event that changed Jerome and his relationship permanently for the worse. It had been another rough night—they were only about ten and a half. Both of them had gotten a head start to escape their mother's drunken wrath. Both had the same exit plan through the front door. Jeremiah had gotten there first and flung open the door. He almost escaped into the night when an idea occurred to him. If they both escaped, there was always the chance that their mother would pretend to be missing them—she often lied—and they would be escorted back for a beating. So, in a split second, he decided that a sacrifice needed to be made. He grabbed the door handle and closed the door. His brother pounded on the other side wildly. Jeremiah held the doorknob so that he couldn't open it. The door had a glass component, so Jeremiah got to see the anguished expression on Jerome's face. He didn't say anything as Jerome pleaded with him up until the moment he was grabbed. Jeremiah had been conflicted, at one point almost crying. But a voice murmured in the back of his mind,  _It isn't you. Be happy. He was too stupid to figure this out before you did. He would have done the same thing._

Jeremiah couldn't stand the look Jerome gave him afterwards. They'd screwed each other over before like any pair of brothers, but escaping their mother together had always been neutral, sacred ground. Jeremiah had violated something his own brother never had dared to touch. Jerome only called him one thing after that: evil. The psychotic bastard thought Jeremiah was evil. What asinine self-projection!

"I saw you smile," Jerome turned to him when Jeremiah had asked him why he thought he was evil. "You closed the door, held it shut, and I saw you smile through the glass as I begged you to open it up."

"No, I didn't," Jeremiah insisted but he wouldn't see it any other way.

"You  _smiled!_ You're  _evil_ , and if not that, frickin' insane!"

They didn't talk much after that. Jerome wanted nothing to do with him, and, when he did, it was some spiteful game he played. Jerome got progressively darker after that. He had no friends at that point in his life; the other circus kids thought he was a strange troublemaker, which he was—he just hid it well. Jerome would stew in silence for hours and mutter to himself. Eventually, he'd laugh at some stupid joke he told himself then go back to muttering. He'd snap back at his mother at the slightest thing—only incurring her punishment with a swift backhand. Sometimes, Jeremiah thought Jerome enjoyed getting punished. A smile would cross his twin's face right before her hand whipped it off.

Jeremiah's paranoia surfaced. He was convinced Jerome would one day have enough braincells to piece together that he had been the one to drive away Jerome's friends. Then, he'd snap; he seemed like he only held on by a thread. As Jerome grew older and older he became stronger, much stronger than Jeremiah, who spent his days sitting around drawing mazes. Every day he'd look at Jeremiah with that killer eye, and every day the possibility came closer and closer to being viable. It was only a matter of time, so Jeremiah had to act first.

The lies just piled up. Jeremiah was still not a good liar when it came to him being interrogated by adults, but he made enough evidence against Jerome to make up for that. Lighter fluid in a sock drawer, a crying child, and a scorched bed was damning evidence for the average self-appointed circus detective. His mother slowly became more and more furious at twelve-year-old Jerome as the evidence stacked against him. Jerome was a moron, but he knew he was being set up. His eyes reflected his dark impulses, slowly losing color with each day. Every time Jeremiah found himself in the view of Jerome his hair stood on edge. Anytime Jeremiah passed him, Jerome would stop what he was doing and stared at him unblinkingly. Nothing was said; his black eyes just followed him like a crouching cat. Then he'd smile and maybe laugh; either way Jeremiah would sprint off and fear the worse if he stayed. Then, finally, his fabrications caught up with him, and Jeremiah was moved—it felt more like a kidnapping—to live with his very distant uncle, who, after seeing the fancy scholarship and the prospect of not having a teenager living with him, shipped him off to Saint Ignatius.

Jeremiah shook his head; he didn't want to revisit anymore memories tonight. He hurried past the rest of the caravans to the edge of the fairgrounds, where it reentered the dark streets of Gotham far away from the brilliant light. His mind was swirling. He couldn't make sense of anything. He needed to leave—go home.  _This is home._ Home was the maze.  _What are you hiding from?_ Nothing.  _Then why are you running?_  No reason.  _Scared?_ No!

Jeremiah jumped the small chain-link fence to the sidewalk, pulling his collar up, tucking his hands into his coat pockets, and continuing down the street.

* * *

"Jeremiah!" Bruce called as once again he'd lost Jeremiah in the crowd. This time though, Jeremiah had seemed more deliberate in his attempt to get lost. Bruce searched down each nook and cranny of the area where he had last seen Jeremiah. He knew he couldn't leave Jeremiah, he was pretty sure he was his only ride. It was his fault anyway for suggesting the whole outing when Jeremiah wanted to head home. Finally, Bruce came across the outskirts of the circus where the personal caravan wagons were. He knew he could probably ask where Jeremiah had gone.

It was time to do some detective work. He approached a woman smoking a cigarette on the steps of a caravan wagon.

"Excuse me miss, but have you seen—"

"Freaky four-eyed red head, stared at my house for three minutes, wore clothing that would put a clown to shame?" Bruce nodded slowly at the description. She jabbed a finger at the fence. "Went that way 'bout ten minute ago."

Bruce looked out to street from there. His mind mapped out where Jeremiah could have possibly wandered in ten minutes and decided he'd have a better chance finding him in the car. Then a thought occurred to him. If he wandered down the correct number of streets in the wrong way, he could end up in the territory of—Bruce quickly sprinted off towards the parking lot.

* * *

Jeremiah was lost. He'd never really studied Gotham's streets, so he didn't know where everything was in relation to him. He seemed to have wandered onto the wrong side of town—then again that was ninety percent of Gotham's streets. There were no cabs—they seemed to know to stay off certain streets—and all available maps had been irrevocably vandalized. So, Jeremiah still pressed on into the night—trying to forget about—

"Jerome!"


	9. –Day

"Jerome!"

Jeremiah recoiled as he heard the name. He spun to find a large alley way with a small parking lot next to it. Out of the shadows of the ill-lit alley, a spiky-blue haired man stepped towards him. Jeremiah was shocked by the wonder that shone in the man's eyes; he looked at him like a child meeting Santa Claus.

"Jerome, you escaped death once again, you victorious bastard!" Soon others came out of the shadows, and wild laughter pierced the air. "Some of us thought you were dead, but I knew it. I knew you were still alive!"

Jeremiah froze. He'd thought of every scenario when facing Jerome's deluded followers; he just never thought that he'd encounter them along the streets. He'd never considered he'd have a distraught midnight stroll through the wrong side of Gotham. Now he stood frozen as they surrounded him like a pack of wild laughing hyenas. He thought about running, but that would make them give chase. He knew he could not outrun them.

"Absolute maniac!" The man grinned. "That was an amazing spectacle you put on last week! But convincing everyone you were dead was your crowning masterpiece! Wait until we tell everyone! They're just dyi—" The man frowned as he got close; his eyes searched for something in Jeremiah's face. "Wait, you're not Jerome!"

The laughing stopped as the group loomed closer to see that it wasn't their idol. Jeremiah felt his pulse quicken, and he darted towards the street, trying to escape into the open. Before he could take two good steps, he was caught in the arms by two of the cackling goons and was pulled until his heels scrapped the ground in resistance. Suddenly, they surrounded him in a close crowd. Growling and grunting their discontents at the realization that Jeremiah was not Jerome, they dragged him so that he knelt in front of the spiky haired man.

A woman with black and white makeup painted on her face yanked his head back by the hair to expose his appearance to the light of the overhead streetlamp, "He's not Jerome." She looked up and smiled at the rest of them. "He's Jeremiah, Jerome's brother."

A chorus of growls burst from them as well as a few cheers and whoops. They had found their target that they had been searching for over the course of a week. Jeremiah attempted to wrench his arm away from them, but his effort was in vain.

"Brother," the spikey haired man said thoughtfully, then smiled deviously. "Jerome had plans for you." A repetition of laughs came from the cult, and he got right up in Jeremiah's face. "Yeah, big plans. Told us how he was going to RIP your teeth out and make them into a wind-up toy." He clacked his teeth in imitation and a few others joined.

Suddenly, fingers invaded his face and his glasses were torn off rendering the world a muddled blur. He heard a  _SNAP_  and knew they were broken beyond repair. Jeremiah wasn't extensively blinded by the lack of glasses, but it made everything seem surreal and unfocused. The faces were less detailed, and he couldn't tell what they were thinking from their expressions. That terrified him. Jeremiah attempted to rip free again, but the grips on his arms were iron-clad. He was punished with a quick slap in the back of his head.

"To think, this nerd got to share flesh and blood with Jerome," one of them growled. "What a disgrace you are to his name!"

"What a fraud!"

"We should make sure you're never seen as Jerome again," There was a click, and something glimmered in one of their hands: a switchblade.

A cackle emanated from the leader as he snatched the blade away from the other one, "Good idea! Let's carve this guy before he dishonors Jerome's image anymore!"

The blurry, glinting knife etched closer to his face until it was inches away. Jeremiah struggled fiercely in vain. The man touched the blade to his cheek, putting enough pressure so Jeremiah could feel it. The blade was agonizingly dull; any form of scarring they planned to do would be painful and slow. Jeremiah felt fear claim his chest as the pressure increased on the knife. He felt like screaming for help, but that would only give them satisfaction. He needed to do something quick. Then, suddenly, an intuitive calm washed over him. Everything stilled as something came forward: a killer instinct. He narrowed his eyes at the spiky haired man.

"Get your hands off of me," Jeremiah's voice was level, unemotional. The knife paused on his face. This provoked "oooohs" from the band around him.

"You think you're tough?" The leader looked amused.

"No, I just don't see a threat," Jeremiah responded coldly. After reading Jerome's journal, it seemed like a rather vanilla menace. "Threatening to disfigure me, how . . . boring. If there is anything about the sick man you worship, he was _never_  boring."

The man glowered at him, "Pick him up."

Jeremiah was dragged to his feet as the man, who was several inches taller, got in his face; the man's breath smelled like sour milk. "How dare you insult him!"

"The only insult I see," Jeremiah pushed even closer until they were nose-to-nose, "is your group of sycophantic sideshows scrounging for a place in the spotlight."

The man's fist collided with Jeremiah's cheek; he stumbled backwards. An instant bruise formed with a rush of warm blood. A spurt of guffaws came from the group as he collected himself. Jeremiah's focus wasn't broken; his lip thinned into a frown.

"See," Jeremiah wiped his head back up and turned so that he was speaking to the congregation. "Predictable. Impulsive. Boring. Weak. Everything you are in one action!" He hissed back at spikey hair.

The man's foot connected with his stomach in a side kick; Jeremiah was sent sprawling to the ground. The cultists backed up to allow him to tumble. Jeremiah lay there for several seconds; the wind knocked out of him. The man started to laugh, encouraging the others into a spiral of laughter. They let out another laugh: high pitched, annoying.

"Ha. Ha. Ha." A mocking laugh came between wheezes. The cult slowly started to peter-out of the laugh as they heard Jeremiah's voice mix in. It was a humorless laugh; he didn't smile. He slowly got to his feet in the middle of the silent awe, still chuckling in a monotone laugh. He stopped and twisted around to glare at them individually; his eyes held something deadly in them. "Are you finished? I'll tell you another thing about you  _precious_ leader; he'd be utterly disappointed by his depressing, derelict, unfunny flock. That sadist psychopath would have at least made a stupid attempt at a joke and it would have been at least half-funny."

Jeremiah was suddenly grabbed by the collar, and the knife was placed at his throat.

"You sonuvabitch!" The spikey haired man growled, "Shut up! Don't talk about Jerome like that! I'll cut your tongue out and—"

"If you're going to kill me, do it!" Jeremiah growled at him. "No flair, no fanfare, no pathetic attempted comedy, no convoluted plot, no monologue about what you're going to do, nothing. If you're going to kill me, kill me. Don't waste my time."

There was stunned silence. A small confused murmur sprang forth as they didn't know what to do.

"Aren't you afraid to die?" Someone from the crowd ventured.

"If you stare death in the eyes enough times," Jeremiah rolled his eyes, "he'll lose his frightful mystique."

Silence followed again. They all stared at him with their beady, unintelligent eyes. Jeremiah kept his gaze fixed on the blurry man in front of him. The knife trembled, cutting into the flesh of his throat. If he felt pain, he didn't show it.

"Stop!" A female cultist shouted with worry. "Don't hurt, Jerome!"

There was a sensitive hush; then a response rang out.

"That's not Jerome, dumbass!"

New voices swarmed around as confusion broke out.

"You're right it's, Jeremiah, the true heir to Jerome!"

"That's blasphemy!"

"Jerome has obviously possessed his brother."

"No, he  _is_  Jerome!"

"Just kill him!"

"Don't you dare, hurt him!"

A holy debate broke out among the group. Jeremiah remained silent, still keeping his eyes deadlocked on the spiky haired man.

A laugh burst from him, and he whispered so only Jeremiah could hear, "You may not be Jerome, but, damn, you're the closest thing to inspiring madness in them since he left."

The debate grew into a riot. Anger grew as they couldn't decide the nature of Jerome. People started to grab one another, and a few fistfights broke out. Then there was the sound of screeching wheels. Headlights suddenly turned to the group and then the high beams were flicked on, blinding the cultists. Jeremiah did not look behind him, the light shadowing his face. Like cockroaches, the cult scattered as the sudden light, leaving only about four of them, including the man with the knife. There was a  _CRACK_ , and a cry as one of them fell. In the bright light, Bruce cast a long shadow across the cultists. Another one raced towards Bruce, only to be tripped by a leg sweep. Jeremiah snapped into action. The man was much bigger and stronger than him, but he was surprised when Jeremiah tackled him to the ground. He laughed as Jeremiah found himself on top of him.

"I see it. Jerome is in you like he is in all of us," The spiky haired man grinned. "The madness that sets us free, will soon set that piece of Jerome free."

Jeremiah's blood boiled; his teeth grit in matchless fury. It was not reflected in his voice as he coldly replied, "I am nothing like Jerome." His fist wildly collided with the man's nose. "He was nothing." He slammed his fist into the man's cheek again. "He was insane." Something cold was in his hand now, and he drove it down. "I am someone." Again, he drove it down. "I am not insane!" He yelled the last part and reached up to gain leverage on the next blow. Suddenly, a hand gripped Jeremiah's wrist.

"Jeremiah!" Jeremiah snapped to attention, Bruce had a death grip on his wrist. Jeremiah's hand throbbed and felt sticky; there was a blur of red on the thug's face and body. Something dropped as his grip loosened, the switchblade he had been threatened with just moments before. Jeremiah's eye traced from the blood on the knife to the several stab wounds in his right shoulder. Sickened, Jeremiah stumbled back into a stand; Bruce stabilized him. Jeremiah swallowed dryly; everything seemed to pulse in his vision.

"Let's go," Bruce ordered as the other cultists seemed to be turning back and surrounding them again; he grabbed Jeremiah's arm and pulled him towards the car past the other wounded and unconscious cultists.

* * *

Jeremiah sat stiffly in the car. He sat straight, his bloodied hands folded in his lap. The orange sleeves of his suit were ruined by the blood along with what splattered on the rest of his attire. Deep in thought, he stared down at his hands. He'd been silent for the last several minutes after making a quick request to skip the hospital and head straight home. Bruce almost sensed what he was thinking.

"I called the police and an ambulance anonymously," Bruce said. "He was wounded in the shoulder, I don't think any major arteries or organs were stabbed. He should live."

Jeremiah didn't show any reaction.

Bruce spoke again, "It was an instinctual reaction, Jeremiah. It doesn't mean anything about your character. You'd be surprised what people do in life or death situations."

Jeremiah shifted and stared blankly out the window, folding his hands together.

Bruce felt compelled to say something again, "You know this isn't what life is going to be like. Today was just—"

"A bad day." Jeremiah said, he sounded distant. "Just takes one."

"What?" Bruce asked as the second part was lost.

"Nothing," Jeremiah breathed.

There was that damning silence again. Neither of them wished to discuss the events of the circus or the alleyway. Bruce knew he would have to bring it up, question it, but he didn't think the moment was the time. Jeremiah was frightened; he didn't need to be interrogated as well. Bruce focused on driving.

Jeremiah glanced over to Bruce; something strange caught his eyes, "You seem rather resilient. We went up against a group of psychopathic cultists and you look . . . lively. Why?"

Bruce was confused by the sudden query. He was driving, so he didn't have the luxury to look at Jeremiah as he said, "Adrenaline: I'm sure I'll seem less resilient in a few minutes."

"No, no, it's not that," Jeremiah shook his head in Bruce's periphery. "This is something more. You—" Jeremiah seemed to weigh his words, "You . . . enjoy it—danger, fighting—don't you." Bruce's expression betrayed him with quick blinks, and Jeremiah continued, "That's why you've always run headlong into peril. That's so strange for someone like you to have that impulse!" There was a short, nervous laugh.

"Jeremiah," Bruce leveled his voice. He figured Jeremiah was still slightly hysterical from the events earlier, "I don't 'enjoy' any of it. It's just the adrenaline. I get a rush—"

"A rush, yes, that's what I got tonight," Bruce glanced over only to jump in surprise. Jeremiah was uncomfortably close, studying Bruce's face without his glasses required him to close the gap between them. He rested his elbow on the divider and held his chin; unknowingly, he smeared a bit of blood on his chin. "I felt it, what it was like to face someone in hand to hand combat. Coming that close to death and escaping. It was thrilling." He shook his head and sat back into his side of the car. "I don't know why: I just felt alive. More alive than I had ever felt in my life. Nothing else existed. Now, coming back to the regular, the now, the world just—"

"Doesn't feel as real as it did during the fight," Bruce finished the thought. It was something that he had pondered for years, ever since he got in his first fights at school.

"Exactly," Jeremiah leaned back into the seat. "Not too many people would feel such a thing, let alone admit to it, Bruce. It seems we are bound by our similar abnormality, cut from the same cloth. Wouldn't you agree?"

Bruce was silent.

Jeremiah seemed to wait for a response, but after a disappointing minute, looked outside, "We're in the woods now, right?"

"Yes," Bruce nodded as they neared Jeremiah's home.

Jeremiah licked him lips tentatively, trying to think of something to say, "I'm sorry about tonight. I didn't think I would have had such an impact on so many people in my life. I guess I was a troubled child. Both me and Jerome were troubled. I realize that doesn't excuse what I did to that man—" he paused building up the courage. "I shouldn't have left in a hurry from the circus. I shouldn't have dressed so abnormally and drawn the attention of the curator. I shouldn't have embarrassed you like that in front of your board." He laughed bitterly. "What would Thomas have thought?"

_Emotional Manipulation 101,_  the voice of Selina rang in Bruce's head at the mention of his father.

They now were closer to the compound; Bruce could see it.

"I'm going to make it up to you; I promise." He paused again. "You're the best friend I've ever had, Bruce." Jeremiah muttered. "I appreciate everything you've done for me." The car came to a stop, alerting Jeremiah to the fact that he was home. "I think I'm going to be alone for a little bit." He nodded. "Think things over."

Bruce nodded in reply then added in fear of Jeremiah returning to an absolute hermit lifestyle, "Just don't forget that there is a world out here with people who care for you."

Suddenly, Jeremiah's hand gripped Bruce's arm, "Thank you, Bruce, you don't know how much that means to me." Jeremiah said with a warm smile. He opened the car door. "Goodnight."

Bruce watched him as he exited the car and made his way towards the bunker. He didn't turn around to wave goodbye as he slipped in the door. Bruce sat there for several more moments, contemplating the events of the night, trying to figure out if he should pursue Jeremiah to check on him. Bruce finally sighed and threw the car in reverse, his shirt stained with a bloody handprint.

* * *

From the kitchen where he was having some calming tea, Alfred heard the garage door open and close. He'd almost been on the cusp of calling Bruce once again. His last conversation had sounded less sure about the state of Jeremiah and had ended with Bruce stating that he had lost the man. Now, he was back less than an hour after their conversation. Alfred found this suspicious. A dark thought crossed his mind and he positioned himself so that he was cutting apples with a knife—a large knife.

He heard the door open and close and the sound of booted footsteps.

"Master B, I hope you remember to take your shoes off," He joked, at the same time, he was just making sure Bruce responded without using a code they had invented for hostage situations. There was the sound of shoes being removed.

"Sorry, Alfred," Bruce's voice was low, troubled.

Alfred heard him enter the kitchen and turned around. He had a sizable cut on his lip and another on his forehead. Then there was the ordeal with the bloodied handprint still partially visible on his dark coat. Alfred was about to immediately attend to him until he saw Bruce's anxious expression. He didn't want treatment; he wanted to talk.

"Well," Alfred sighed after taking in Bruce's state. "I'll make some more tea. Jasmine? You might want to pull out the old sewing kit as well. Take care of that nasty cut on your forehead." He quickly shuffled to work, and Bruce took a seat at the table. Alfred weighted his words carefully before speaking, "Jeremiah didn't do this did he?"

Bruce solemnly shook his head.

"Good, good," Alfred nodded with a sigh; he placed the knife down. "So, what happened?"

* * *

Jeremiah washed his hands; the blood swirled down the drain in a spiral. He stared at them blankly wondering whether it would ever truly come off or if there would always be a molecular level of blood still on his skin. He didn't like the feeling of the blood on his hands—it was messy and sticky. Gloves might be better the next time he got into an altercation. The next time? He thought as if he was going to leave again.

He shook his head. He was important now; he  _needed_  to leave the compound to finish his work. The thought terrified him. The walls of his maze were nowhere to be found outside; he wasn't safe without them. Again, his mind was brought to the chaotic nature of the infrastructure of Gotham. So erratic, so illogical, so chaotic that it didn't allow for a person to navigate the terrain without stumbling upon a gang of psychopaths. He was more determined than ever to rectify the chaotic nature of the streets; he just didn't know how at the moment.

As he dried his hands, the stress of the night continued to weigh over him. They would come for him again. He knew it. It was only a matter of time. Then again, he had gained quite the following with just a few words. It might cause a rift in their community. But, they thought he was Jerome or some reincarnation of him. Jeremiah shook his head. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised if they tied him up and attempted to sacrifice him to a volcano to appease their psychotic god. The difference between their religion and their insanity was growing thinner every day.

That wasn't the thing that scared him most. He knew the reaction he had to being threatened wasn't a normal one. He knew that. He wasn't sure whether to embrace it, seeing that Bruce had a similar reaction, or reject it. It felt like something Jerome would have done: enjoyed being interrogated, having his life on the line. Then he remembered the night Jerome died. The moment he slapped the knife into Jeremiah's hand. How he whispered to him about being a killer. Wasn't that true? If he killed that man and Bruce was wrong about the ambulances getting there in time, he was indeed a killer. If not that, he was one at heart. He'd committed murder in his heart time and time again, if not towards Jerome then definitely towards his follower an hour ago. That darkness he was afraid to face was there. Something else he'd shared with Jerome.

He looked up into the mirror—a replacement of the one that he shot—and examined his face, was he becoming his brother? He shook his head. No, that wasn't possible. His eyes suddenly traced over a sticky residue from the blood on his chin. He quickly got a washcloth and wiped it off. Definitely not Jerome. He couldn't be. His brain retreated to its logical roots: The Law of Identity. A=A not A=B. Jerome=Jerome. It wasn't Jeremiah=Jerome. No matter what, even if he were to be exactly the same, even if he tried his hardest, he still wasn't Jerome. Jeremiah was satisfied with the logic of that answer. Still, an illogical fear haunted him at he looked in the mirror. With the way his hair was frazzled and the disturbed look in his eye, how was he any different appearance-wise from pre-face removal Jerome. Jeremiah quickly pulled out his spare glasses, an identical to the originals, and put them on: better. He returned to the main room.

Back to an old habit, he poured himself a drink, still contemplating the day's events. The box almost presented itself in the corner of his eye. Its bow standing out on the skin of the wrapping paper. It was such a strange amalgamation of colors that it was almost otherworldly. Jeremiah found himself drawn to it. Immediately he had the cautious thought: it could be from Jerome. He gritted his teeth. He was tired of hearing that name, tired of living in that maniac's shadow, tired of being compared to him, tired of sharing the same skin as him! It was infuriating to even be mentioned in the same vein as him. He wasn't going to fear him anymore. He wasn't going to legitimize him or his cult with paranoia. He felt calm overcome him as he reached towards the box and untied the bow.


	10. Metamorphosis

Jeremiah was grinning like a fox. He'd gotten thirty-two dollars over the course of the night. Kansas City was full of foolhardy chumps who thought they could outwit a feeble child by solving his simple maze in five minutes. They were very sorely wrong and several dollars lighter in the pocket. He strode down the dry ground back to his caravan. Hopefully, his mother would be asleep and unaccompanied, but that would be out of the ordinary considering that it was a Friday night and closing in on eleven. He would take a peak through the door, and, if he heard noise, he would leave to go find some other place to sleep—usually a folded-up tent or one of the other circus people would open their door to him.

Jeremiah rounded the corner of a tent and headed towards the caravan. He stopped in his tracks as a scene unfolded in front of him. On the step was Jerome, who, along with Jeremiah, had just turned nine years old that day. Despite the usually happy occasion for a normal child, Jerome's cheeks were bruised and wet with tears. Jeremiah rolled his eyes, another day, another stupid thing out of his mouth, another beating. Jerome was his own worst enemy. What was different about this encounter with an upset Jerome was an additional person sitting next to him. The blind, old seer, Mr. Cicero, was patting him on the back as he moved to stand.

"Best you realize that now," He shook his head, and Jerome stared vacantly at the ground. Whatever advice he'd given him was obviously impactful since Jerome didn't respond with his normal quip.

The old man stood slowly and shuffled towards Jeremiah. Jeremiah elected to stay absolutely still and avoid alerting the blind-man to his presence. Despite Jeremiah's motionlessness, the old man turned his milky eyes towards him. The boy jumped. The man was creepy as he stared ahead and seemed to be supernaturally aware of his surroundings. Jeremiah didn't know at the time, but this man was his father. He couldn't have known. The similar features had been disguised by age, and any semblance of fatherly love or responsibility was lost on the fortuneteller. Might of well Jeremiah never had a father. Somehow, according to later police reports, the old man seemed to know that they were his sons. How he did was a mystery. He couldn't possibly observe their faces and their mother had so many lovers it would be impossible to do a time measurement. Despite being a rational human being, Jeremiah thought that his old man might have actually possessed some sort of extra perception powers. He was always afraid of the man because of it.

"Hello, Jeremiah," the old man spoke to him.

"Mr. Cicero," Jeremiah returned quickly before glancing over at his brother. "Is Jerome alright?"

The old man waved it off with a touch of a smile, "Just giving him his birthday present: a bit of wisdom."

"He could definitely use that and some lockjaw," Jeremiah jabbed, shaking his head.

The man chuckled, "Yes, yes. But I'm sure you want a present as well."

Jeremiah frowned, never knowing his birth to have been celebrated by anyone except for one or two times someone from the circus remembered it, "I know better than to ask for something on my birthday."

"I'll give you one anyway: a reading."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes, "Sure."

The old man gripped Jeremiah's hand with force, pulling him forward a bit. He ran his fingers over Jeremiah's hand, following the lines of his palm. As he did, a steady grimace appeared and only deepened. He furrowed his brow. Jeremiah looked at him with abject dread. What was he seeing?

Cicero finally sighed and dropped Jeremiah's hand, "Worse than him." He seemed to mutter to himself.

"What?" Jeremiah implored him to explain. "What do you see?"

Cicero seemed to throw on a slow smile, "Nothing to be worried about. A lot of laughter is in your future." Cicero reached out and placed a hand on Jeremiah's shoulder—too perfectly for a blind man—patting it, "Always liked you best." It seemed like he was saying goodbye.

He turned and left Jeremiah there with many more questions than answers. Jeremiah was about to pursue but stopped. The strange man's prediction scared him more than anything. Perhaps it was better not to know.

Jeremiah knew he was going to have to sleep elsewhere that night. He turned and started to walk past the caravan to where he knew he could get some sleep. As he did, Jerome remained crying on the steps of the home. Jeremiah stopped as he passed him. Something like pity welled up in him. He sighed.

"Who did this to you?" Jeremiah asked like he didn't already know.

"Some jackass from a bumpkin town called Smallville. What does it matter?" Jerome sneered.

"You said something stupid didn't you," Jeremiah said with a chide.

Jerome scoffed, "Shut up. I was looking for you. I came in at the wrong time. What loser wears polka-dot underwear?" Jerome smiled a little but returned to his dejected expression. "Did Mr. Cicero tell you the same thing?"

"The same thing?" Jeremiah asked. "The man couldn't have been any more ambiguous." Jerome cocked his head to the side the way he did when Jeremiah used a word with more than three syllables. Jeremiah explained in layman speak, "He didn't tell me anything important as far as I could tell."

Jerome looked him up and down, "You look scared."

"I am not scared!" Jeremiah shook his head.

"You are; you're all twitchy and stuff," Jerome prodded.

Jeremiah changed subject, "Well yeah? You're crying, what did he say to you? Probably told you your IQ number."

Jerome looked distraught as he recalled it, "I told him about ma and Smallville, how they hit me, and how it was my birthday. He told me, that no one cared about me. That the world is cruel, and I should learn that now." He wiped his eye. "But, you don't believe that do you?"

Jeremiah sighed, Jerome could be so naïve and stupid at times, "He's telling the truth. I mean, look at your face. Do you think that comes from a benevolent. . . nice world?"

"But," Jerome sniffed. "I mean, it can't be true. I've met some nice people."

Jeremiah was taken aback. Jerome was so childish; he'd yet to learn something that Jeremiah figured out years ago. Jeremiah figured it was because he was infinitely dense and unbelievably gullible. He found the idea amusing: Jerome not knowing this simple fact. So, he decided to educate him on it: have a bit of a mental experiment. Observe as Jerome went through the transition from stupid optimism to harsh reality.

"That's the charade," Jeremiah shook his head. "There aren't really any nice people. It's just people trying to fit in. They're told to act nice, so they do, like, cogs in a machine. People's true selves are a little less pretty to look at, so they hide it."

"Liar," Jerome protested as his eyes continued to water. "I know mom's not a nice person, but Mrs. Grayson is pretty nice. So is Mr. Haly, and I like the clowns, they're funny—my friends too. They care about me, and they're nice."

"No one really cares," Jeremiah said like it was common knowledge; he was having too much fun with the way he poked at Jerome's emotions. Jeremiah sat beside him on the step like he had seen people do in the movies when they had a serious conversation. "They don't care about me, or you. It's an act; it's a way to feel accepted among the people around them. If they really cared, they'd be here now comforting you. I don't see anyone. If they cared at all, do you think they would let us live with that woman we are forced to call our mother. Everyone knows she beats the crap out of us. No one does a thing." Jeremiah shook his head. "Mr. Cicero is right; the world is cruel and so are the people who live in it. Do you think a year after our deaths anyone's going to give a damn about us?"

Jerome had a trembling frown cross his face, "But you would, right? You care about me? We're brothers, right?"

Jeremiah felt a pang of guilt. He was causing Jerome to go through a bit of a crisis. He felt the need to assure him that he did care about his brother. He did care, in a way. He opened his mouth to say so, but something brought a memory back. Jeremiah was standing on the stage again, being booed and jeered all because of Jerome and his stupid friends. If Jerome had cared about him, he wouldn't have done that. He would have helped Jeremiah. So, why would Jeremiah aid his brother now?

Jeremiah didn't respond but shook his head.

Jerome had boiling tears run down his eyes, "So you don't care about me either."

Jeremiah sighed and plastered on a pitiful expression, "I care as much as I can."

Jerome looked down and resumed crying.

Jeremiah shook his head. Jerome was hopeless. Maybe Jerome would learn his lesson; he couldn't mess with Jeremiah and expect everything to be fine between them. He thought about leaving, but, when he tried to stand, Jerome grabbed his arm and cried into his shoulder. Again, a twinge of guilt went through Jeremiah. He decided to stay seated until Jerome stopped crying; Jeremiah could afford that to his brother since it was his birthday.

Jeremiah looked down at his maze to start making a new one. His face suddenly contorted into a frown. He stood quickly, throwing Jerome off his shoulder, and walked some steps away. Jeremiah suddenly went quiet as he flipped through the many pages of his notebook. He glanced around nervously, then spun around. Jerome looked up and focused in on Jeremiah's sudden distress. Jerome looked at him bemused.

"What's going on?" Jerome looked up at him with a placated smile. "You finally losing it?"

"Why am I here?" Jeremiah looked questioningly at Jerome.

"Oh God, don't get all philosophical on me," Jerome whipped his eyes. His demeanor shifted suddenly, making him seem more aloof than he had been several seconds ago.

"No," Jeremiah muttered thinking, "I've been here before, this is a memory from when I was younger. This was years ago." Jeremiah paused; he kept talking to himself to figure his situation out. "But it feels like a dream. This maze, the words on the page, are illegible, which suggest that I'm not using the right part of my brain. But, it feels real and more vivid than any dream I've ever had. How did I get here? Did I fall asleep?" He shook his head. "I can't remember."

"Maybe it's because of the gas," Jerome shrugged.

"Gas," Jeremiah remembered it. The toxin released from the jack-in-a-box after he had carefully examined it. Jeremiah had coughed in surprise at the sudden spray; his face felt numb, his vision swirled, and he gasped for oxygen. Then  _Jerome's_  voice echoing as his mind blurred, a neurological agent that made his head light and his muscles spasm. He fell to the ground, unable to control himself as Jerome's voice spun around him. Then euphoria hit him like a train with a trigger that felt like tickling. An inhuman laugh had echoed throughout the room, only for Jeremiah to realize it was his own laughter. Then he was in the dream. But why a dream?

"Why am I here?" Jeremiah asked himself again, now becoming more and more frightened by the sudden shift in scenery.

Jerome looked down smiling, his feet swung from the stairs, "Maybe your brain is sorting things out. Maybe it's a 'life flashing before your eyes' thing. Or maybe you're in hell, with me forever. Won't that be great!"

Jeremiah looked at Jerome with new understanding.

"Jerome?" Jeremiah ventured cautiously.

Jerome answered with a slanted grin.

"Are you—"

"Real? Here?" Jerome shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe I'm a projection of your fracturing psyche, the manifestation of your dark impulses, a reconstruction of your memories, that 'piece of Jerome' my cronies keep going on about, or—hell—a ghost. Does it really matter?" He held his hands out to present himself. "It's me."

Jeremiah just stared at him, unsure of how to proceed, "But . . . why?"

"Why? Why? Why?" Jerome looked exacerbated. "Stop questioning everything! Not everything has some sort of deep interconnected reasoning. Somethings just are."

Something clicked in Jeremiah's mind, "This is like the scarecrow toxin. That's a hallucinogen; this must be derived from the formula. So, that is why I am here."

"Awe!" Jerome looked touched. "I'm you're greatest fear?"

"No," Jeremiah shook his head. "I doubt you—the real you—would have made it for fear purposes. The stuff you poisoned me with is just messing with my mind right now; yours was the last voice I heard before coming here. This phantasm in front of me is a product of the hallucinogenic properties of the original formula, which—unfortunately for you—I've studied extensively. Jim Gordon overcame the hallucinations by not engaging them." Jeremiah smiled confidently. "I cannot let it win. I'm not going to engage this delusion you—or rather the real, very  _dead_  Jerome—has placed in my mind. You've lost."

Jeremiah turned to leave. Suddenly, an arm snaked around his shoulder pulling him tight. He looked over to see himself—no Jerome—illusion Jerome at his normal age and as if he had never gotten his scars. Jeremiah noticed he was no longer his child self as his brother gripped him tight and walked with him. Jeremiah tried to rip away but couldn't.

"Oh, come on, don't play this holier than thou shtick," He pushed his finger into Jeremiah's cheek and twisted. "Oh, you're just so cute when you're denying your psychotic breakdown!"

Jeremiah attempted to wrench away, but the grip was ironclad. Jeremiah averted his gaze from Jerome.

"Not speaking, silent treatment, I got it," Jerome rolled his eyes. "Knowing you, you've probably still got the why's, how's, and what's, all swirling up in your noggin. Hmm. . ." Jerome snapped his fingers. "Probably wondering why this specific moment, this specific memory, this of all places and hells you've gone through has to appear now. Why does your mind take you here to a sad birthday when you convinced your older, cleverer, more handsome brother that everything and everyone in his life didn't love or care for him? You're also wondering why is he currently the manifestation of madness you see before you? Well," Jerome paused then shrugged. "I don't know, but I'll take a shot. This:" Jerome gestured around to the carnival scenery, "is the day I started to go a bit insane and with a little help from you little brother. And so," He leaned in close, "you drove me mad; I thought I'd be here to return the favor."

Jeremiah continued to stare intensely at anything but Jerome.

"You ever feel bad about making my childhood a living hell?" Jerome ventured casually. "I mean, it would have been hell without you, but you were just the devil with his pitchfork driving it into me again and again and again! You were the favorite little boy. You probably thought you were favorite because you held your tongue and were nice and smart enough to avoid mom. But, we both know you just made me a little more prominent in her mind when she was too drunk to tell us apart. You'd do the ol' switcheroo, pretend to be me and say some off-colored thing to get her all angry. Then, you'd run off until poor, unsuspecting, very confused Jerome got home to a drunk, irate snake charmer. That's how it usually went. Right, little brother?"

Jeremiah shook his head furiously.

"Oh, come on," Jerome growled in his ear. "We both know you were just waiting for mom to kill me. You kept stoking her against me, hoping she would eventually snap. Then I'd be gone, mom would be locked up, and you'd be a ward of the state because you just didn't think our stupid uncle would even want to care for a kid. You just didn't expect her to have a moment of kindness and send you away." Jerome smirked. "We both know you wanted to change my holding cell in your complex into a gas chamber. You were just afraid to get your hands dirty, and, for sentimentality, you didn't want your little girlfriend to have to kill me. What, you going soft? You were trying to kill me, even in the beginning."

"Of course, I was!" Jeremiah blurted out. "It was only a matter of time before you slit my throat in the night."

"There it is," Jerome slapped him on the shoulder. "That beautiful little paranoid brain of yours at work. Your insanity stems from it: the pride you feel in your intellect. So proud of it, you were afraid of it being imitated. You couldn't imagine a world where there could be two of you without the other attempting to slit your throat. So, in your hurry to prevent that, you made it a reality."

Jeremiah was silent again.

Jerome sighed, "This isn't going to work if you don't talk back to me."

Jerome released Jeremiah, but Jeremiah didn't run. It was futile. It was all in his mind, and he was sure whatever Jeremiah did, Jerome would just catch up to him like a nightmare. Jerome prowled around Jeremiah like a panther. He seemed to be looking for a weak spot in Jeremiah's psyche.

"So, this Ecco chick," Jerome prodded suddenly with a knowing smile. "Talk about love at first sight. I thought she was going to be an easy mark, but, when she took me down, boy that was a surprise. Just takes a good smack to the face to get the hormones pumping. Man, I was thinking about her the whole time in that little chamber you built. You had to get a blonde assistant didn't you. You know I love blondes!" He stopped pacing suddenly and licked his lips. "I was hoping Tetch's little spell would have lasted a bit longer 'cause I was thinking about familiarizing myself—"

"Shut up!" Jeremiah snarled, again breaking his promise to avoid engaging him. Jerome always knew how to provoke him.

"Oh!" Jerome pretended to look surprised. "Jealousy! I like that look on you!"

"As if she would even think about you," Jeremiah scoffed.

Jerome hooted with a grin and stepped closer to him, "Her eyes lit up for just a second when she saw me. Probably saw a bigger, better version of you. The guy she's crushing on with a little more oomph, a little more man in him. Say why haven't yah swept her off her feet, wasn't like you had competition. That chick is crazy obsessed with you, and I know you like her. She gets you all riled up," Jerome ruffled his clothes violently with a cackle. Jeremiah stayed stonily still. Jerome then proceeded to speak in a nasally voice. "'She's dedicated her life to me, I can't abandon her now.' 'I couldn't do anything without you.' 'I appreciate you, Ecco.' That's your version practically throwing yourself on her. You're just not man enough to try."

Jeremiah's eyes burned into the ground.

"'Ecco, what I'd really appreciate is you picking that up off the floor really slowly,'" Jerome laughed again. "Too much of a wimp I guess. If you want something, grab it by the throat. I have, multiple times!" Jerome examined Jeremiah's agitated expression and switched tactics. He turned his back, walked away from Jeremiah, and asked over his shoulder, "So, you're all buddy-buddy with Brucy now?"

Jeremiah looked at him with a warning in his eye.

"You should really be thanking me," Jerome said, "After all, I'm the only reason you two met." Jeremiah's expression changed to one of intense anger. "I bet it really eats you up inside to know that. I introduce you to your—" he used air quotations "—'best friend' and I don't even get a thank you!"

"Thank you?" Jeremiah almost shouted. "Thank you for what? You want me to thank you for tormenting both of us, for forcing me under-ground, for attacking Bruce?"

Jerome nodded, "Would the brat have talked to you otherwise? And am I really to blame for all that stuff?" Jerome gestured to Jeremiah, "Do you blame the mad dog doing what mad dogs do, or the handler who knew exactly what he was doing when he prodded it and let it off a leash?"

"God!" Jeremiah huffed angrily. "You're delusional!"

"He says to the delusion," Jerome laughed. "You know you're nothing more than a case study for him, right? You're entertainment! Rich people are weird like that. Think about how they laughed at you at the manor. You think his girlfriend being there at that exact moment was on accident? It's prime entertainment to witness the kooky engineer guy flounder in a social situation."

Jeremiah shook his head, "Bruce wouldn't do that! He's my friend! He saved my life tonight!"

"He gets his kicks in strange ways," Jerome shrugged. "Probably has a bit of a hero complex, but I'm not one to talk. Maybe he thinks he can save you. Pfft. You're a damsel in distress, brother."

"You're not my brother," Jeremiah shook his head trying to find some way to get back at Jerome. "Bruce is a much better brother than you ever were."

"Ditto." Jerome smirked at him. "He's such a nice little brother to have around, unlike you. We're so connected it's strange." Jeremiah grounded his teeth as Jerome spoke about Bruce like that. Jerome smirked, "You're jealous of me and Brucy."

"What?" Jeremiah felt everything in his body clench with rage. Him: jealous of Jerome? The absurdity!

"Think about it," Jerome tapped his temple. "We were so much more connected than you are to him. We've fought each other, wounded each other deeply, our blood mixing in the middle of battle."

"You think you're close?" Jeremiah asked incredulously. "Bruce hates you!"

"Hate or love, doesn't matter, " Jerome shrugged. "Think about all those times he's thought about me: the nights he wakes up in a cold sweat dreading my knife at his throat—the countless hours his every thought is on me. Closeness is not defined by love or hate, it's just how much you know you're in their head. Hate's just easier to maintain than love. I'll be with him forever lingering in the back of his consciousness for the rest of his rich boy life. You: you'll just be a memory of a disturbed little engineer he used to know."

"No, no," Jeremiah shook his head. "Bruce cares for me. He told me that himself."

"'No one really cares. It's an act; it's a way to feel accepted among the people around them.'" Jerome echoed Jeremiah's words from many years ago.

Jeremiah shook his head as he realized he was being condemned by his own words, "No, he's different!" Jerome just gave him a pitiful shake of the head. "No! He does care!" Jeremiah shook his head. "I know what you're trying to do! You're trying to break down my defences! I'm not going to give up! I am not insane!"

Jerome rolled his eyes, "You're so blind, probably more blind than pops was! I always knew it. We're two sides of the absolutely insane coin. You're just trying to ignore it, even now."

"No," Jeremiah shook his head fervently.

"Think about it." Jerome held his hands out. "With all the odds of me just being a figment of your mind, this is your own head talking right back to you."

"No," Jeremiah shook his head violently, "You were insane! You were from the beginning. You skinned cats alive because it was fun!"

"Look, I may have skinned cats alive a couple of times," Jerome came close to Jeremiah. "But I'll be damned if I didn't see you dissect the pieces once or twice."

"That was research—" He started to explain, but, when Jerome just nodded with a knowing smile, Jeremiah insisted, "I am  _absolutely_  sane!" Jeremiah exhaled angrily, he could never keep his cool around his brother and he started to speak erratically. He tried to tear down Jerome in any way possible, so he attacked his ego, "You think you're so special with your cry for anarchy? You're one of a million psychopaths in this city! All plotting and scheming with their tiny brains to take this town and make it anew. You especially are a disappointment. All that rhetoric just to fall off the side of a building from Gordon's gun. So anticlimactic! Even your fanclub was disappointed you didn't plan well ahead. But that's the nature of insanity! Stupid faith in a continuation without it being planned. Faith in dumb luck!"

"What, you think you could do better?" Jerome mocked, seemingly unphased.

"Of course, I could!" Jeremiah screamed. "I'm so much more intelligent! I could have this city on its knees begging to be spare from me! My plan would be impeccable! If I wanted to, I could do it in a week's time!" He came close to Jerome, sneering into his face. "I would be greater than you ever were!"

Jerome was shocked into silence; then he broke into a wild cackle, "That's the most  _insane_  thing I've ever heard!"

Jeremiah paused horrified at what he just said. Jeremiah's hands clenched into fists, and he swung at Jerome with a yell. Jerome side stepped with ease and tripped him. Jeremiah fell to the ground hard. He rolled over onto his back to see Jerome standing over him.

"Let's stop the fighting, ok?" Jerome extended his hand. "I'm just the harbinger of your insanity. It's going to happen either way. It probably happened a long time ago to be honest. You just need to accept it. Embrace your inner. . ." he thought of a word then smiled, "Me."

Jeremiah got to his feet slowly in rejection of the outstretched hand, holding his head as he did. His mind felt like it was swimming around in a blender. He was losing it. Already things were becoming muddled. It was like his mind was becoming a poorly wired machine, nothing linking to where it should. Strange impulses started to compel him, like the speech he just directed at Jerome.

"Probably feeling the effects already," Jerome nodded. "Don't worry, I think your intelligence with survive, your memories, personality, who knows? But, I don't think you'll care; I mean, you're going to think you think  _so_  clearly in a little bit. No society or stupid Super Ego to stop the pure Id inside of you."

"I don't. . ." Jeremiah drifted off. "I don't. . ." he felt tears in his eyes.

"What?" Jerome came close to him. "You don't want to be seen as the monster you really are? You don't want the curtain pulled back, the skin peeled off to reveal what revolting darkness is inside? You don't want to have the whole world gawk at you like some zoo animal? Or is it that you just don't want to disappoint Brucy by becoming exactly what everyone thought you were?"

Jeremiah responded to the last point with the shake of a head, "I just. . ." he trailed off again as everything became fuzzier. The world around them reflected it with the fading of the circus lights and their childhood home. Now, they were in a black room.

"Trust me, insanity: you're going to love it!" Jerome wiped his brother's eye with a flick of his thumb. "Don't cry for mind's long gone, brother." Jerome slapped his hand on his shoulder, "I'm gonna help you out! Tell me, what's the last strand of sanity left in this old noggin of yours." Jerome leaned forward, putting his ear up to Jeremiah's lips. "Just whisper it. I won't tell anyone."

Jeremiah swallowed hard and whispered it into his ear. Jerome laughed, and Jeremiah added on, "It... Bruce said it wouldn't be just; it wouldn't fix anything. It would be cruel."

Jerome laughed, "Oh shut it! I'll make it happen. Don't let some flimsy little notion of justice that the naïve preppy kid has programmed into your head stop you now. I thought you were the one who knew the world was stupid and punishing. One instant and a crazy brother later, and everything you love is gone." Jeremiah wasn't sure if he was referring to himself or Jeremiah. "Believe me, there is nothing like justice—it's made up. You make your own justice. Anything else is just something to laugh at."

There was metallic crashing sound from behind him, and Jeremiah spun around. A rack of weapons seemed to have materialized behind him; everything from knives, guns, RPGs, to a medieval battle mace sat ready to be wielded.

"Here's your final wish before it's off to the padded wagon. This time you've got options," Jerome stood, his hands placed laxly by his sides. "Second try's the charm. Don't waste your opportunity."

Jeremiah made his way over to the rack. He spent only a couple of seconds examining everything before he found his hand grip a metal crowbar. It was heavy and dragged his arm down with the weight.

"Ooh, good pick," Jerome applauded. "A bludgeoning object—very Penguin of you! I'm more of a knife guy myself, but you do you!"

Jeremiah's back was still turned to Jerome; he seemed eerily calm. He gripped the crowbar with both hands and took a practice swing.

"Oh, come on," Jerome rolled his eyes. "It's not rocket science. Just hit me! Look, I'll help you."

Jeremiah watched over his shoulder; Jerome suddenly looked like he did the day he'd died. The grotesque scarring on his face made him look less human. Jeremiah turned to face him. The younger twin had a blank expression, nothing reached his eyes or betrayed his thoughts. The only thing that could be observed was that Jeremiah was in deep thought. He approached Jerome slowly, methodically, every step seemed to be plotted out. He stopped a few feet away from him. He said nothing. He expressed nothing. His gaze was damning. He did nothing for several seconds.

Jerome rolled his eyes with a sigh, "I should have known you'd be indecisive. What do I have to do? Shank little Brucy? Give me a sec and I—"

_CRACK!_

Jerome stopped talking as he was thrown down to the ground. Blood gushed from a gash in his cheek. He touched it to feel the wound. A gargled laugh echoed in the air. He spat out a few teeth.

"Oh, I knew you ha—"

_Crack!_

Jerome gripped his stomach.

"Shut up!" Jeremiah snarled coldly.

Jerome wheezed a laugh, "Oh, come on, don't even think you can be inti—"

_Crack!_

Jerome howled with laughter, "Come on such a sissy swing! Put some back into it!"

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Jerome was still laughing. It was between bloody gasps and broken teeth, but he was still smiling. He rolled over on his back while a chuckle gurgled up. Jeremiah felt a surge of delight. This is what he dreamed of doing for years—YEARS! The relief was amazing! He'd been bottling it since the day he was born and now it was released in a bloody, magnificent crescendo! Seeing Jerome finally at his feet, bloody, dying, made up for every day spent in his hole cowering from this idiot.

Jeremiah's face contorted into a grin.

_Crack!_

Jerome gave a last hurrah in the form of maddened shriek of laughter. Suddenly, his voice was joined by a second voice. Jerome looked up at his brother.

Jerome smiled, "This'll be fun."

Jeremiah swung again and again and again.  _Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_ Jeremiah still heard the sound of Jerome's laughter, so he kept going. Again and again he swung and swung. He needed to be sure this time. Then he caught sight of the body: lifeless, beyond beaten, dead. Jeremiah stopped swinging and backed away slowly. The laughter was still there, but what was left of Jerome's face wasn't moving. He glanced around for a sign of the origin, but there was nothing in the void. Then he felt how breathless he was. Only now did he realize he was the one laughing. He dropped the crowbar and it rattled to the ground. His sides heaved, and he covered his mouth with one hand to suppress the noise. He couldn't stop. He realized that this was what was actually happening to his body, laughing until his lungs burned for oxygen. He gasped for a moment, trying to stop the compulsion. He couldn't, it was involuntary like the beat of his heart.

Then, a clearing wave went through his mind, like water washing away sand off of a stone. Why should he stop laughing? Jerome was dead for good. The way he had been portrayed, the way his mind reacted to Jerome, he must have been a manifestation of his insanity. He'd just killed it. Jerome was dead. Yes, it was a manifestation, and it was gone along with whatever insanity had been there. Jerome was dead for good. Bruce had been wrong, the revenge he had doled out hadn't condemned his psyche but liberated it from the shackles of his dead brother. Jerome was dead for good! He defeated his insanity!

Jeremiah laughed into the void.


	11. Punchline

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I explained it on this site as I did on FFN but my goal for this fic is filling in the gaps between scenes in some parts. So, this will be a bit "touch and go" with the canon, imagining what might happen between the different scenes and sort of rewritting ones we've already seen. I'm sticking to canon, but I promise to make it interesting by exploring what I think certian characters would do or say in between what we see. This chapter uses the most scenes from the show, it's not my favorite chapter, but it's functional. I didn't want to skip over these moments. (If you want to see my full reasoning, I do long, long ANs on the version in FFN that explains why I'm writing it like this.) That's not to say everything will be strictly cannon as there are several AUish elements in this story. Anyway, thank you for reading!

_Premise: A good joke requires a good set up. Something mundane, casual, something everyone can experience or imagine experiencing. The set up must be clear in order for the joke to land. It must have an element of universal experience. It could happen to anyone._

* * *

It had been almost a week since Bruce drove down the wooded path to Jeremiah's bunker. He blinked away the tiredness; he had only gotten a few hours of sleep the previous night. He flexed his right hand as it ached. The knife wound had been jagged and still stung under the weight of stitches; that hand would be hard to bend for a while. The events of the previous night were still swirling in his head. Yet another man in Bruce's life seemed to have defied death and come back from the grave. Not just any man either but a man Bruce had murdered in what he thought was the right thing to do. Instead, Ra's death was the breaking point in Bruce's being; he couldn't bear the weight of killing the man no matter how much he threatened him or the people he loved. It was the one thing he swore not to do, yet he broke at the first sign of threat. Bruce knew he should feel some sort of elation from the murder being reversed, but he could not get past that he had killed Ra intentionally. He decided to do it. That was enough. He couldn't get over that. Now Ra was on the loose again, and he knew he had to have some part in stopping him. He needed to plan a way to incapacitate him without killing him again. Bruce was getting ready to start conducting his plan when a single, short message was left in his voicemail:

"It's ready, Bruce. Come by as soon as you can."

Bruce was glad to hear Jeremiah's voice after such a long time keeping to himself. Apparently, Jeremiah had been back and forth to Wayne Enterprises for the past several days. He had also been overseeing the project in person. Surprisingly, Bruce hadn't heard about it until a day or two ago. He had thought Jeremiah would want to talk to him. However, there was only silence. Bruce had called in to see how he was doing, but the calls either got directed to Ecco, who—in a tone that would rival a computer recording—insisted that Jeremiah was busy, or to the engineering staff, who would proceed to complain. Jeremiah had apparently changed the wiring blueprints for the battery last minute, causing the engineering team to go into overtime. Bruce assured them that they would be paid generously for their cooperation with the eccentric engineer. He remembered one such phone conversation with the head engineer:

"It's not the work, Mr. Wayne. He's creepy. He talks to himself. He looked like he was going to chew my assistant's head off when he suggested a backup protocol to cut off power in case of emergency."

"He's just very protective of his work. I'm sure you know how that is."

"I don't know. He looks a little sick; he's pretty pale—pale for a ginger—and has a nasty cough. Maybe he should take some time off breathing down our necks."

Bruce pulled up to the complex and parked. There was no sign of Ecco's motorcycle, which he had noticed once parked behind some trees under a tarp. When he got to the complex, he knocked on the door. There was deathly silence for several moments. Bruce waved at the camera, sure that Jeremiah saw him. Still silence. For a moment, Bruce thought that maybe he had vacated the bunker, or that his home could be in the city now and he had forgotten to inform Bruce. The idea gave him hope for Jeremiah's state of mind—he would be leaving his old ways behind him. Contrary to the thought, the door finally buzzed and opened. Ecco wasn't there to greet him as she normally did with her stony gaze; Jeremiah wasn't there either in her place. This made Bruce even more on edge. He looked up at the camera in confusion. No movement. Bruce thought for a moment, perhaps Jeremiah was just seeing if Bruce remembered the way. Why Jeremiah would do that, he didn't know. He turned back towards the maze and went in.

_A watchful camera caught Bruce's expedition through the maze. The video feed was sent back into the room where careful hands were setting up the last part of a trap. Not a trap for the current guest, but one soon to come. The actions of others were so predictable, just like mice running a maze._

Bruce knew something was wrong the moment he found his way to the workshop door and walked in to greet Jeremiah. Everything was just the little bit disjointed, slightly less organized than it was before. Bruce initially chocked it up to nerves. Despite Jeremiah's proclamation of friendship, Bruce was still his main benefactor and thus controlled his funding and the future of the program. Though Bruce was confident that everything would be fine technically, and, if by some misfortune it didn't work, he wouldn't do that to Jeremiah. It was when he caught sight of Jeremiah standing right at the doorway that he started to become unnerved. He looked like his normal self, neatly dressed in a dark purple undershirt straightened to the point of obsession, but he projected an aura of intense, fidgety worry. He blinked uncomfortably—like there was something in his eye. His skin looked more plasticky, almost made-up.

"Bruce," Jeremiah greeted with a smile. "I've done it." Instead of listening to Bruce's response, Jeremiah quickly turned and went over to the battery. "I finally did all of my tests. I ran a preliminary run, and it worked! I want to show you."

"That's amazing!" Bruce congratulated, but still the nagging oddness about the situation bugged him. "But, Jeremiah, I haven't heard from you for a while. How are you doing?"

Jeremiah waved him off with a hand, "Fine. I've had some eventful days. I'm sorry if I have not contacted you. I've just been so busy; and I have been  _waiting_ to show you what I've done!"

After a few more moments, Jeremiah directed Bruce to the switch on the wall that would disconnect the base from the power grid. With a flick of a switch, they entered a tense darkness. For several moments, everything was black; then a light appeared as the battery switched on. Then suddenly, the overhead light switched on, then another, and another. Soon the whole room was lit like it had been moments ago. Bruce grinned at Jeremiah, but he didn't seem to notice—instead looking ahead with the same nervousness. Jeremiah immediately went into a technical speech about the battery's properties. It seemed to calm his anxiety as he talked about it.

Bruce circled around the device. Finally, after weeks of careful work, it was complete. He needed to make sure Jeremiah was commended for his achievement. Surely, it would change the face of the Gotham—the face of the world. Jeremiah kept talking about the generator as Bruce walked around the device.

_He looked so proud. Jeremiah felt satisfaction in knowing that his friend was pleased with his work. He wondered what his expression would be when he realized the second purpose of the battery._

Suddenly, the air of caution seemed to reemerge as Jeremiah watched Bruce with baited breath. He seemed to be pondering something. His eyes searched for an approval that had already been given. Bruce knew something was wrong.

"Does anyone else know about the project?" There was a level of seriousness in Jeremiah's tone; it wasn't a casual question.

Bruce shook his head, "Just the board, engineers, and a few others know of the existence of this machine. No one outside of Wayne Enterprises knows."

_Perfect._

Jeremiah suddenly seemed stiff. He moved closer to Bruce and leaned over, almost whispering as he said, "It's the one's closest to you that you need to watch. They're the ones who will betray you." Jeremiah scanned his face for the slightest twinge of response.

Bruce was thrown by the sudden line. He thought for a moment and tentatively added, "Like Jerome?"

Jeremiah bit his lip and nodded. There wasn't the anger Bruce usually saw when the subject of Jerome came up; there was a fear in his eyes.

"Jeremiah what's going on? I thought you were past Jerome," Bruce insisted, noting the uncertain glance.

"I—" Jeremiah stuttered. "I'm trying to be, Bruce. He just finds a way to—" He paused and stared at the ground. "—claw his way back into my life. I—I want to show you something."

Suddenly, he reached into a drawer, pulled out a book, and placed it on the table. Bruce caught sight of the title:  _Jerome's Journal_. Jeremiah flipped through the journal, explaining how he got it from Arkham and how he'd searched through the entire thing again and again. Bruce watched Jeremiah instead of the disturbing images of the book. His hand shook with terror as he turned the pages but there was a deep-set fascination that made its way into his speech. He didn't like the look in Jeremiah's eye; reading the journal couldn't have been good for his psyche. Bruce put his hand on the book stopping the pages from turning.

Jeremiah looked up at him, and Bruce insisted, "Perhaps you shouldn't spend so much time reading his journal." Bruce nodded quickly, "Don't you think it's time you rejoin the world? The project is finished, Jerome is gone, and you can do so much better work in an environment with other engineers to assist you. Think about the life you could have outside of these walls. Jerome is dead; don't let him haunt you."

Jeremiah looked back down at the book. He was fixated on it. Bruce gently grabbed the cover and shut the book. Jeremiah bit his lip and nodded silently.

"I suppose you're right, Bruce," Jeremiah muttered. "I know Jerome is dead, but sometimes I have trouble believing it."

Before Bruce had a chance to question the odd statement, his phone rang.

_Right on schedule._

"Who's that?" Jeremiah asked. Again, there was that strange behavior. Usually, Jeremiah hadn't been concerned with who called or why, but now it seemed important to him. His eyes flicked from Bruce to the phone.

"Alfred," Bruce said and took a step to the side.

The moment he flipped open the phone and heard Alfred's concerned tone, Bruce knew something was wrong. Jerome's acolytes were causing havoc at the GCPD as a final send off from Jerome. Gordon was concerned that the riot was only a distraction for a much bigger plan: a plot for murdering both Bruce and Jeremiah. Alfred told him to stay put; he was going to come over and defend them in case of some unforeseen assailants. Bruce sighed. He knew Jeremiah wasn't going to handle the news well. With the way he was acting at the moment, perhaps it was better not to tell him. He snapped his phone shut.

"What was that about?" Jeremiah searched Bruce's face for some information about the nature of the call.

"Lunch plans," Bruce tried to shrug off the call casually.

Jeremiah's eyes scanned Bruce's face. He frowned a little, "That was a lie." His eyes shone with the hurt of betrayal. "Are you lying to me, Bruce?"

Bruce felt guilty immediately; Jeremiah didn't need to be treated so delicately. He sighed, "I'm sorry, Jeremiah." He tried to come up with some way to relay the information in the calmest way possible. "Jerome's followers have started some trouble at the GCPD."

Jeremiah's eyes widened in shock. It wasn't the level of fear Bruce had expected; his eyes were filled with wild horror. Jeremiah stepped backwards, bumping into one of his tables carelessly.

"I was right," Jeremiah muttered. "He's not dead."

Bruce was taken aback by the sudden shift, "No, Jeremiah. It's just his—"

Jeremiah wouldn't allow it, "Bruce, he's not dead. He's alive and coming after me!"

He spun around grabbing Jerome's journal as he did and paced back and forth. Bruce approached slowly. Jeremiah seemed to thumb through it quickly, as if looking for a plot that matched the one they were experiencing. He sighed gruffly and snapped it shut in vain.

"Easy, Jeremiah," Bruce said carefully. Jeremiah's stress was getting to him. It reminded Bruce of the day they had met, when Jeremiah was threatened by Jerome. "You're not thinking clearly. This isn't like you," Jeremiah didn't meet his eye. "What's happened since I was last here?"

Jeremiah looked to from Bruce to the journal in his hand. "Bruce, I have a confession," Jeremiah mumbled, he frowned as he said, "Jerome left me with one final gift." He paused. "Jerome sprayed me with his insanity gas."

Bruce recoiled at the news and ice seized his chest. He spun around, trying to hide his distressed expression from Jeremiah as the engineer described a vision of Jerome coming out of the grave. Jeremiah seemed distant as he said it, like he was reliving the event in his mind. Jerome had left a final gift in the world. Something that would destroy Bruce's friend—his own paranoia. Bruce felt a sense of dread seize his chest that he hadn't felt since the previous night. He couldn't allow Jerome the chance to break Jeremiah's mind. Jeremiah was intelligent though; maybe he could even reason beyond whatever chemical delusion Jerome had planted in his head. He needed to let Jeremiah know that Jerome was gone for good.

"I've got an idea."

* * *

_Delivery: Delivery is everything. Capturing the audience's mind in the story is key. If the presenter laughs or breaks character, the joke is over before it gets to the end._

* * *

Jeremiah continued to drum his fingers as Bruce drove. His face etched with a mad worry. Jeremiah stared out the car window. He shifted constantly, his eyes darting around searching for unseen threats. Bruce pulled his phone away from his ear. It was the second time he'd tried to get to Alfred and he hadn't answered. Alfred  _never_  missed a phone call, but he couldn't do anything about that now. He sighed and placed the phone down and concentrated on the frightful Jeremiah.

"Jeremiah," Bruce prodded carefully. Jeremiah jumped and turned his wild eyes on Bruce. Bruce smiled softly, "Don't worry, Jerome is gone for good."

Jeremiah smiled weakly, "I know, Bruce." He seemed to force the words out. "I know." His hand ran though his hair from the back causing his hair to stand up; it was like he didn't even notice.

Bruce knew this was the doing of the insanity gas. He had, despite Jerome's death, looked into Jerome's insanity gas. The two victims had been taken under extensive care. Their minds had been fractured to pieces; just bringing them out of a catatonic, smiling state was proving to be impossible. Bruce's thoughts wandered to the possibility of the same thing happening to Jeremiah. Perhaps Jerome's ultimate plan against him was to erode Jeremiah's mind slowly, painfully, so that Jeremiah knew it while it was happening. Bruce couldn't allow that. He couldn't lose one of his only friends in several years to a final sendoff from Jerome. He wouldn't let him end up like Karen.

"Maybe we should go to the hospital," Bruce suggested. He knew he should have probably suggested it from the beginning, but he had held off because he thought that the graveyard might have offered better closure. Now he was thinking otherwise. "There might be a way to introduce an antitoxin before the symptoms worsen."

_No. It wasn't according to the plan. That wouldn't do._

"Damn it!" Jeremiah suddenly burst out. He shook his head violently. "I knew it. He's risen from the grave again, hasn't he! You know his grave is going to be empty. That's why you're changing plans."

Bruce insisted hurriedly, "Jeremiah I wou—"

"Bruce don't lie, again," his eyes were filled with mad paranoia. "I know you're trying to protect me, but don't lie. Is he infiltrating my bunker as we speak?"

"Jeremiah," Bruce said seriously, "Jerome is dead for good. This is just a delusion he's planted in your head. It's the gas." Bruce thought for a moment, perhaps they should go to the graveyard first, just so that he could show Jeremiah the untouched ground where his brother was buried. If he brought Jeremiah to the hospital now, he might reject all treatment due to paranoia. Even if they forced it on him, the fact that he believed Jerome was alive might hinder any additional mental assistance. It might even break him. He looked terrified as he was there. "We'll keep heading to the graveyard, I'll show you that Jerome is buried, then we'll get you to the hospital."

Jeremiah nodded slowly, "I trust you Bruce." He repeated what he said in the bunker, "You're a good friend."

_For a moment a small smile tugged at Jeremiah's lips before he looked away._

* * *

_Escalation: The joke needs to intensify, adding new information or absurdities. Keeping the audience's interest not matter how long. No longer is the joke simply the mundane anymore, but reveals itself to be the opposite, something funny and odd._

* * *

Jeremiah wandered through the graveyard as if it were midnight on Halloween. He jumped at the slightest noise and herded close to Bruce like a timid dog. Bruce was still trying to get ahold of Alfred. He hadn't told him that they left the bunker and now it seemed that the butler still wasn't answering his phone.

"He's not answering?" Jeremiah asked.

"No," Bruce sighed with a hint of frustration. A pang of worry started to spring up in Bruce. He shoved it down; he needed to appear resolute. "It's fine, he'll head for your bunker. We're almost there, right?"

Jeremiah nodded, but suddenly he skirted in front of Bruce cutting off the means forward, "I don't think I can do this, Bruce."

"Come on, Jeremiah. I know you can," Bruce attempted a smile. "We'll see that the grave is still there untouched, and then we'll go to the hospital, alright?"

"Yes, yes, you're right. You're right." Jeremiah nodded again and again. He seemed to be trying to convince himself. He turned back and continued in the direction of the grave.

As they walked, Bruce took a few precautionary looks over his shoulder. It didn't feel right. He didn't feel like they were safe there. There was that extra sensory feeling that they were being watched. By whom? He didn't know. He thought that it couldn't be the cultists because they were never organized—or, honestly, smart—enough to think of a coordinated sneak attack.

Jeremiah froze suddenly; Bruce slammed into him as he looked back. Jeremiah, still staring ahead, slowly backed up so that he was behind Bruce. Bruce's eye caught sight of the dug-up grave. The initial shock ran through him as did an illogical thought: Jerome had returned. He shook off the idea immediately, and his mind went into overdrive as he examined it. It looked like it had been dug open. The casket was missing—there was just the tombstone sitting over the grave. This was no resurrection. It was a grave robbery; Bruce knew who as well.

"It looks like Jerome's followers have dug him up," Bruce turned back to reassure Jeremiah, but the redhead had disappeared.

In the distance he heard a frightened cry and the shout, "He's alive!"

"Jeremiah!" Bruce whirled around and chased after him.

_Jeremiah retreated to the preplanned tomb. It had one entrance, and a corridor leading into it that ended in a spot for him to hide. It was perfect for the stunt he was about to perform. He hurried over to the spot and slipped open the secret compartment where he had hidden the handgun. Everything was planned to perfection. There was no room for err; that was how you conducted a plot._

_Then he waited a few moments for Bruce to enter. Bruce predictably called out to him, called for some semblance of sanity. If only he knew: Jeremiah was saner than anyone. He just needed to put on a little show—a little act to rally the troops behind him and complete the rest of his plan. He needed to make it convincing. Bruce continued to plead, and Jeremiah responded in his best frightened voice._

"Jerome is dead!" Bruce insisted at one point.

"Why should I believe you?" Jeremiah's voice was full of worry.

"Because we're friends!"

_Jeremiah paused, he felt a small smile cross his expression but quickly dismissed it. He couldn't break character. It would ruin his act, and he'd put so much time into it. He held the gun behind his back and proceeded to step out into the corridor._

* * *

_Timing: Timing is key. The beats of comedy are a funny thing. You either hit it or you don't; the audience knows the difference._

* * *

Bruce could have sensed the gun before Jeremiah even pulled the trigger. It was something he tended to detect after years of training and life-threatening situations. He had ignored the feeling. Perhaps he just didn't want to believe that Jeremiah would use a weapon against him. It didn't matter as Jeremiah strode over, shook the gun at him with a nervous yell, and called him Jerome—his delusion taking over. Now the cool muzzle was trained at the back of his head, threatening at any moment to blow his brains out.

Bruce was forced outside by the nervous engineer. He was shoved roughly ahead; Bruce realized Jeremiah was stronger than he was led to believe. Jeremiah didn't allow Bruce to even look back—threatening to shoot him again and again. Jeremiah muttered to himself with a vigorous babble. Most of it was directed at Bruce, but a non-physical Bruce. Like a maddened prayer, he mumbled to himself.

"I'm so sorry, Bruce. I couldn't save you. I didn't know what this psychopath would do to you," He sounded broken, distraught beyond belief. He truly believed what he was saying.

"Jeremiah, please," Bruce reassured him. "I am not Jerome, he's dead!"

"Liar!" Jeremiah bellowed. "You killed my only friend. You've ruined everything in my life! You have only ever dragged me down in life, and I'm going to end it today, Jerome!"

Bruce thought quickly; he needed to prove that he wasn't Jerome and fast. What would he know that Jerome wouldn't? The thought occurred to him.

"I solved your maze when I came to visit you today," Bruce said with hope in his voice; certainly, he could snap Jeremiah out of his delusion with logic. "Would Jerome know how to do that? How would he know how to navigate your maze?"

_Jeremiah paused for a moment. Bruce was smart trying to bring out an answer in reason. How he tried so hard. Jeremiah knew that Bruce could probably have restrained him—possibly even in that moment—but Bruce was just that concerned with his mental state that he wouldn't try. He was afraid of what would happen to Jeremiah's mind. How touching. He really was a good friend—the best of them._

"Come on, Jeremiah." Bruce pleaded again. "Use your head. I'm not Jerome!"

"Shut up!" Jeremiah growled again. "I don't know how, but you did."

"Think, Jeremiah. It's not rational!"

_Insane men didn't need the power of logic to fuel their delusions—and that was what Jeremiah needed to embody._

"Don't think your words can save you, Jerome!" Jeremiah shouted. "Move! Or I'll have to drag your body to the grave."

Jeremiah was too far away to close the distance between them before he let off a shot. Bruce had to continue until there was a moment when he let his guard down.

Then they reached the destination: the grave, but something stopped both of them in their tracks. Bruce couldn't believe his eyes. Jerome was precariously slumped up against the tombstone at the edge of the grave. For a moment, Bruce questioned his mental constitution—almost suspecting that a residue of the gas might have affected him—but, upon further notice, Bruce found that it was nothing but Jerome's corpse. Jeremiah suddenly brushed forward, losing focus on Bruce and heading over to Jerome. He quickly inspected the body with a fervor of confusion.

Bruce wasted no time trying to snap Jeremiah out of his delusion.

"See? It's all a ruse! This is Jerome's final plot—he's using his followers to carry it out! They might not be too far away! We have to leave!"

"I see it now," Jeremiah responded distantly; he dropped the gun as he inspected him. "How you tore poor Bruce's face off and replaced it with your own." Bruce froze. The delusion was still holding on. Jeremiah was lost in it.

Bruce didn't hear Jeremiah's next words as he reached into a pocket on Jerome's vest and pulled out a razor blade. He stood suddenly, a maddened look on his face. He crouched low and held the blade awkwardly as he took a swing at Bruce. Bruce jumped back.

"Jeremiah, stop!"

Bruce jumped back again as Jeremiah swung with the knife. Jeremiah lunged forward but Bruce kicked the hand away. Jeremiah swung at Bruce wildly, but he was no match for Bruce's trained fighting style. Bruce finally was able to smack the knife out of his hand. He wrapped Jeremiah in a headlock. He would try to reason with him a final time. If that failed, then he would cut off his oxygen so that he would pass out. Jeremiah wrenched against him, but Bruce held steadfast.

_Jeremiah's vision became spotty. Not good. Jeremiah signaled with his hand out of Bruce's eyesight._

"Jeremiah," Bruce grunted as he tightened his grip. "You can't let Jerome beat you!"

_Jeremiah stilled suddenly as figures appeared in the corner of his eye. He, admittedly, let his act slip, "_ Jerome beat me? That'll be the day."

Suddenly, Bruce was grabbed from behind. He snapped up to see the painted faces of Jerome's cult. Bruce had been so focused on the fight that he didn't notice them. He released Jeremiah as he was torn back. Jeremiah was similarly grabbed suddenly. The cult let out a celebratory laugh as they finally caught their targets.

_Jeremiah burst into laughter as well. Finally, several days of planning had paid off. Now he had a captive audience in order to reveal his true self. He just didn't know how yet. He needed it to be big—explosive. Something like a show—like a magician appearing on stage in a puff of smoke. He just didn't know how to do the switch yet._

Bruce's worry extended beyond the immediate. Jeremiah's mind seemed to fracture right in front of him. He seemed unaware of the danger as he laughed along with the cultists. Bruce wondered what must have been going through his mind, it was too much for Jeremiah to handle. He was losing it. Bruce tried to grab one of the cultists, but his right hand was slow to move due to the pain from his knife wound. Bruce struggled against the cultists, trying to wrench away from their grips, but they had his hands behind his back. That didn't stop him from trying to squirm away from them. They started chanting wildly. Bruce looked around for some weakness among them, something he could do to break them free.

"Jerome is victorious at last!"

* * *

_Punchline: The climax to any joke is the punchline. This is when the curtain is pulled back, the joke revealed, and the audience is shocked into laughter._

* * *

There was a  _BANG_. The cult silenced. Bruce's attention snapped towards Jeremiah; his heart froze when he surveyed the scene. There was blood splattered on Jeremiah's face, which was contorted into a disapproving frown. There was the glint of a small, concealed gun settled into his hand. The cultist restraining him fell, dead. For a moment, Bruce thought it was a glimmer of self-defense from Jeremiah. He started to look for Jeremiah's next action that would help lead Bruce to fighting off the cultists. He half expected the cultists to jump on Jeremiah, but they were motionless, confused. Jeremiah didn't move himself. It was like everything paused.

The hopeful thought of self-defense disappeared as Jeremiah remained motionless for several more seconds. Jeremiah's posture changed, the fear was gone, and the paranoid madness with it. He pulled himself upright as the glimmers of emotion evaporated. He looked annoyed. Bruce flinched at the sudden change. It was as if someone had suddenly replaced him.

"Jerome victorious," a monotone chide hissed from his lips as he surveyed the group, "are you serious?"

The gun flicked back up his sleeve. He retrieved a pocket square from his pocket while removing his glasses. He tossed them aside emotionless, as if he didn't need them anymore. He took the handkerchief and wiped the blood of his cheek. As he did, a streak of white appeared from under his skin. Bruce felt his hair stand on end as the unnatural color appeared. What was that? Bruce suddenly remembered something else about the gas victims. There had been recorded blotches of bleaching on the patience' skin. Jeremiah seemed to have experienced it as well—but he hid it. He hid it. Jeremiah turned his attention away from Bruce and stepped toward the body of Jerome. He whispered something in the corpse's ear and swiftly pushed him into the grave with his foot.

_Jeremiah felt a sense of glee that didn't reach his expression as his brother tumbled into the grave. Finally gone._   _He continued to wipe the makeup away and took out his colored contact lenses. He wanted Bruce to see him as he truly was._

Bruce could only watch in mesmerized horror at what seemed to be the sudden disappearance of his friend. Now there was someone else, something the gas made, he was sure of it. There were hints of Jeremiah, just the worst parts. The way the whole thing was organized, the cultists, the sudden turn, hiding his skin, everything could only mean that Jeremiah had planned the entire thing. He proved as much with his next sentence.

"I apologize for the act, Bruce," Jeremiah said in that emotionless tone. "I was just proving a point to these bozos."

Bruce's mind was between frantic thought and reality. Jeremiah continued to monologue explaining his plan—how he pretended to be insane, how Jerome's Journal was a web of insanity, and how he was going to outdo every single plan in it. Bruce couldn't believe it. Everything was swimming in his head. Jeremiah's words were not just aimed at him, it seemed to be a rehearsed speech: something he was doing to appease the mass of cultists surrounding him. Bruce tried to reason with Jeremiah, expose his thought pattern as the insanity that it was, but Jeremiah refuted it in the most insane way possible. He claimed he was sane—that everything he did was sane. Bruce only felt his hope for Jeremiah's rationality disappeared. Of all the delusions for Jeremiah to have—he had to believe he was sane. Even worse, he wanted to conduct the work of Jerome—sanely. Bruce felt horrified. This was Jerome's final gift to Gotham. Jeremiah was an unwitting pawn—he couldn't see it because he would never believe Jerome was "sane" enough to trick him. Jeremiah expressed this as he continued to read one of Jerome's plots for Bruce's murder with a scoff.

"If I wanted to kill you, I'd do it," Jeremiah said, the gun in his hand raised to point directly at Bruce. "Simply, and sanely."

There was a twitch of a smile—the only thing that broke past the wall of emotionlessness—but it was only for a split moment. The idea of killing him: it amused Jeremiah. Giving a moments glance to the body of the cultist—Jeremiah's cultist—he'd killed him without a second thought.

"Jeremiah," Bruce was surprised by the sudden plea that he gave to Jeremiah.

"But I won't," Jeremiah lowered the gun, almost drawing satisfaction from the appeal. There was a boo from the cultists, and Jeremiah quickly chastised them into silence before returning to Bruce. "I'm not going to kill you, because I want to show you how much I've changed everything. How much we've changed everything." He stepped closer to where Bruce was restrained. "I couldn't have done it without your help," Jeremiah said slowly.

_Bruce was going to remember this. He'd have to at least appreciate it, just like his work earlier._

Bruce stilled for a moment, "My help?"

"Oh, yes," Jeremiah inclined his head. "You've offered me a great deal over the past couple of weeks. I am greatly indebted to you, Bruce." Suddenly a small alarm went off on Jeremiah's wrist watch and he looked down to check the time. "See, those generators, we built with  _your_  money," he looked back up at Bruce, "they work even better as bombs."

An explosion wracked the air. Bruce's attention snapped over as a cloud of fire exploded not to far from them. Bruce felt a wash of fear go over him—what was Jeremiah doing? Before, Bruce was sure that he could help Jeremiah before things got out of hand, but now he'd become nothing less than a terrorist. It was all because of Bruce. It didn't make sense, the only functional battery was in Jeremiah's home, what would exploding his workshop achieve? Bruce glared over at Jeremiah, who didn't even acknowledge the explosion. Instead he stared directly at Bruce. Again, he was searching for a reaction.

Jeremiah held up the book. "One down." The only thing that broke Bruce out of his thoughts was the calm declaration, "Jim Gordon is dead."

Bruce felt a shock run through him. Jerome's followers let out a cheer. Bruce couldn't bring himself to believe it. Then he thought: both of them had been targets. Why wouldn't Gordon go to the workshop to protect them? Gordon was predictably heroic and concerned with Bruce's safety. Bruce shook his head. Jim had been in dire straits before, but he had pulled through time and time again against the odds. He would have made it out. What made him—forced him—to believe in Gordon's death for a moment was the pure confidence Jeremiah showed. Bruce knew Jeremiah did not deal in uncertainty; he unquestionably believed Gordon was dead. An anger welled up in him. Again, Bruce could see the start of a subtle smile that never quite formed. He was smiling! He was enjoying it!

_Jeremiah thought that he should feel some sort of remorse. He did just blow up his home, but the explosion ignited a sense of confidence in him. There was no going back. There was no home to retreat to. He had to exist in the world, and it too would come to reflect his home. The only ping of remorse he felt was the absolute anger in Bruce's expression. It wasn't the look one gave a friend._

"I'm going to stop you!" Bruce lost all semblance of his cool. He didn't care. Gas or not, Jeremiah had just killed one of his closest confidants, one of his only friends, a part of his family. He didn't care if Jeremiah was being afflicted with something in that moment, something about the way he gave a knowing look to Bruce signaled a malice, an evil that Bruce felt like he had been ignoring. Now, Gordon was dead because of it.

"Oh, I hope you don't," Jeremiah said with that monotone voice. "I'd hate to have to kill you. In fact," Jeremiah stepped close. "I'd say, you're my very best friend."

Bruce was sickened. The only reason Jeremiah wasn't killing him was because of whatever friendship they had. Bruce realized he was Jeremiah's audience, the one who's opinion mattered. He was going to make a point, and he wanted Bruce to watch. He wanted nothing to do with that. He didn't get the chance to rebuttal as Jeremiah rested a hand on his shoulder. Jeremiah smacked the gun across his head, and his vision went black.

* * *

Jeremiah watched as they heaved Bruce's unconscious body on top of the dead psychopath. He slid down into the grave on top of the corpse. It would be an unpleasant awakening, but a necessary one for the trials ahead. Just a little taste of what was to come. He wanted to share his enlightenment with Bruce. Jeremiah was as he truly was; he wanted the same for his best friend. Jerome had held Jeremiah back from his greatness; he wondered what held Bruce back. When he went into a stage of dream, what figures from his past would restrain him. Jeremiah saw glimpses of who Bruce really was, he just needed the young man to realize it.

Bruce was going to hate him. He knew that, but Jeremiah was a good friend. He would weather whatever anger the broody young man held towards him. When he had completed his plans and showed Bruce who he really was, Bruce would thank him for what he had done.

Suddenly, a laugh surfaced at the thought. It was quick—uncontrolled. Not again. He quickly clamped his hand across his mouth and pretended that it was a cough. No doubt the followers noticed.

"Hey, boss, that's a nasty cough?"

Or maybe they didn't. Either way, a sane man doesn't suddenly burst into laughter. He couldn't allow it. The laughter subsided, and he cleared his throat.

Jeremiah caught sight of the cultist he had shot. His first kill. It was. . . not what he was expecting. It was boring. He just died. Jeremiah shrugged. What was a sane man to do? The sanist way was not always the most entertaining, but that was that. Now he needed to focus on the task at hand.

"Let's move out!" He called for the rest of his cultists to follow.

Jeremiah left his two brothers down in the grave under the epitaph:  _Second time's the charm._


	12. Ecco's Story

It was the morning after Jeremiah's presentation. Ecco arrived with a screech of the wheels on the partially paved road. She was eager to see Jeremiah and ask him how the meeting went. He usually would go on for hours after each visit with Bruce, and she expected this one would leave them talking for many hours. Ecco enjoyed when their conversations extended beyond the immediate instruction, even if those moments were few and far between. Even so, her interaction from the day before still weighed on her.

If anything, she was rather embarrassed. She realized that she had overstepped her boundaries. She'd broken down in front of Jeremiah. She was supposed to be his rock—his foundation when he was beginning to worry. Instead she had been the one to worry him. A part of her liked to see him worry about her, it was the part of her that wanted him to feel the same way about her as she did him. Another part—the professional part—knew that she couldn't do that to him; it wasn't her place to worry him. She could care about him all she wanted; she couldn't expect him to feel the same. She was there to protect him from any kind of harm. He didn't have to do that for her.

Ecco approached the bunker door with his breakfast in hand. She stood there in relative silence. She looked up at the camera. Certainly, the sensory alarms triggered.

"Jeremiah?" She called at the camera.

Nothing.

There was no click of the door being unlocked, no swivel of the camera, nothing. She bit the inside of her mouth as a paranoid feeling welled up in her. Usually, she would have chocked it up to Jeremiah oversleeping or busying himself with the project, but something didn't sit right in the pit of her stomach. Ecco knew to trust her instincts, and it was warning her of something. She unlocked the door using the panel and stepped inside. She quickly traced her way through the maze, the turns and twists were second nature to her. She knew every detail of the trail and could pick up if something was amiss. Ecco stopped in her tracks and dropped the breakfast when she saw it. The door to his workshop was ajar. Nothing but darkness was able to be seen inside. Ecco clenched her jaw in anxiety. Jeremiah would never leave his door open like that. She found her hand reach towards her holster as she approached. Her head swam as possibilities started to prod her mind. She pulled out her handgun and held it low.

Ecco took a few tentative steps into the room. There was paper everywhere, posters torn from the walls, and spilled pencils that threatened to trip her. The room was too dark to see anything else. The small window of light that the door provided didn't illuminate anything else. Jeremiah was nowhere to be seen.

"Jeremiah?" Ecco paled. A terrible vision of Jerome's followers finding their way through the defenses sprang her into action. "Jeremiah? Where are you?"

She reached for the light switch but was stopped when a desk lamp switched on. Ecco snapped her eyes over to see the silhouette of a man leaning on the desk. She immediately aimed her handgun at the unknown figure. The figure didn't jump or move as Ecco trained her weapon on him. Suddenly, a soft, dry laugh emanated from him. The voice familiar was, but the tone was unrecognizable.

"Come now, Ecco," the monotone voice shocked her. "This is the second time you've threatened me this month. If I were a vengeful employer, I would have you fired right now."

She hesitantly lowered the gun, "Jeremiah?"

His head inclined slowly, "Who else?"

Ecco felt relief, but at the same time the horrible pit in her stomach didn't leave her, "What happened?" She looked around at the chaos. "Everything is a mess."

His body was abnormally stiff as he said, "You could say that I have undergone a rather violent metamorphosis." Metamorphosis? She frowned. She didn't understand what he meant. "My environment quite reflects that change." Jeremiah coughed suddenly.

Ecco took a step forward, Jeremiah waved aggressively for her to stop. Ecco did but maintained a look of concern.

"A temporary feature among many of my brother's trap," His voice tinged with annoyance.

He kicked a box over towards her, the light from the hallway illuminated it to reveal it was a Jack-in-a-box. Ecco felt her heart stop; their system had failed. Jerome had gotten to Jeremiah. She'd failed to protect him. She looked up at Jeremiah with fear in her eyes. He was hiding from her. She wondered why.

Jeremiah continued, "It was a specially made sample of the toxin with which he had hoped to poison the populace." Ecco felt her stomach twist into a knot. The insanity gas, Jerome had sprayed him with the insanity gas. "The only thing is it was as successful as his original plan. I experienced a few superficial effects and a few dreadful hours of something akin to a hallucination, but ultimately," he indicated to himself, "not insane."

"Then we'd better do residual checks at the hospital," Ecco said quickly, she felt relieved that Jeremiah was still sound of mind, and finally holstered her gun. "We don't know what other effects that gas might have."

"I am perfectly alright," anger shaded the words. "That moron couldn't break my mind with a sledgehammer, let alone a half-baked concoction designed by a lunatic strawman."

"I just want to make sure that he hasn't poisoned you beyond the temporary," Ecco assured him; she felt like she was talking him down. "Let's check out that cough at least."

"Ecco," Jeremiah seemed to become testy. "No, hospital."

Ecco was silent for a moment. Normally, any form of a threat would trigger Jeremiah's paranoia and send him into a destructive spiral of redundancy checks. Now, he didn't want any; it seemed he was trying to avoid the hospital. He was completely confident in his abilities. Something was not alright.

"Why are the lights off?" Ecco asked pointedly.

"They were bright and annoying; I turned them off," There was a hint of hesitance that only someone like Ecco would pick up. He was lying.

Ecco felt a sense of determinedness and fear at the sign of his hesitance, "Alright then, I'm going to turn them on."

"Ecco," There was a tone of warning in his voice, but it was hard to tell with the way he now spoke. "Go ahead, but I do have to warn you: there have been a few cosmetic effects of the toxin. It's a bit unsettling to say the least."

Unsettling? Ecco paused and swallowed. She knew that something had been wrong, but she hated the thought of Jeremiah being disfigured. She felt her heart break for a moment; perhaps Jeremiah was incredibly distraught because of it. That was Jerome's final trick, disfiguring him into self-imposed isolation. Ecco didn't care what he looked like; she would just hate if Jeremiah continued to hide because of whatever Jerome's contraptions did to his appearance.

She uncertainly reached over to the light switch and flipped it. The lights kicked on with a buzz and the distant roar of the generator. Jeremiah's figure was illuminated properly, and he flinched in the sudden florescent light. Ecco took a step back in surprise. His skin was white: chalk, bleached white. His lips were an unnatural tinge of bright red, and his eyes seemed paler—almost green.

"I'm assuming a  _ta-dah_  is in order." Jeremiah shrugged still speaking without emphasis, but a smile wriggled its way onto his face as he saw her expression.

Ecco took a step forward as she scanned him for other abnormalities, "We need to go to a hostp—"

"No," He cut her off quickly before she could continue. "I assure you, nothing is wrong. It's a simple bleaching from the chemicals. I am," Jeremiah's voice trembled suddenly, "completely fi—" he bit back a heave of breath and covered his mouth as a laugh sprang forward. Ecco approached quickly with concern; Jeremiah waved her off savagely. He clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. His hand gripped the desk as he doubled over. Despite the laughter, a twinge of annoyance crossed his expression. Ecco was left horrified and at arm's length away from Jeremiah. She hated not being able to comfort him. It took about a minute before he finally stopped. He was breathing hard from the sudden outburst.

"Another annoying side effect," Jeremiah growled through wheezes. "It seems there was some minor neurological tampering. I now have a nervous tick; it has been vexing me for the last couple of hours. I have a burst of euphoria but afterwards everything seems rather . . . blasé. It's bothersome."

"Jeremiah," Ecco shook her head, "neurological effects are definitely not healthy. We—"

"But that's not what I wanted to show you," Jeremiah kept talking like he didn't hear her. He pried his hand off the desk and trailed past her. Suddenly, his arm hooked around her shoulder, and he pulled her along with him. Ecco would have enjoyed the physical touch if she wasn't deathly worried about him. He escorted her over to his drafting desk where an elaborate plan had been drawn up. Multiple sticky notes and drawings littered it in an unorganized mess of ideas and plans. She couldn't help but noticed that Jerome's diary was laid open with multiple bookmarks posted on almost each page.

"You see, this is what I have been working on," Jeremiah said sweeping his hand over the blueprints like he was pulling back a curtain.

"This?" Ecco ventured questioningly. She looked down at the drawings more carefully. There were streets and buildings and— "This is Gotham."

"Very astute, this is my plan to take Gotham," Jeremiah said quickly. "It's a work in progress, but I've only been plotting for a couple of hours." It didn't look like it. Everything was detailed to the slightest intricacy. He had that glint in his eye: the glint of inspiration. The look had usually brought a spark of joy into Ecco's day. Now, it terrified her.

"Take Gotham?" Ecco questioned, trying to follow his logic. "Jeremiah, I don't understand. What does this all mean?"

Jeremiah simply nodded towards the print: "I'm going to do the one thing that I know Jerome would absolutely hate. I'm going to upstage him with his own schemes."

"Upstage?" Ecco's mind started to race as the pinpoints on the map started to stick out. They were not random. They were carefully chosen spots of importance. The mayor's office, the old clock tower, almost every noteworthy building in Gotham was highlighted.

"Yes, after Jerome's closing night and unwelcomed encore, what better than to have me completely outshine him. I'll take his script, and I'll outdo every single thing he ever wrote down. It's the ultimate insult; my final sendoff. His name will pale in comparison." Jeremiah seemed to be on a role; he slid over to the battery. "I finished the generator in the first hour; then I devised plans for a second purpose." He looked back at her. "Remember how I told you that this machine was dangerous? Well, it seems that with just a few changes, you've got a bomb."

"A bomb," Ecco was still mystified. Everything spun around in her head as she watched him. A part of her was screaming in her head telling her that Jeremiah had been hurt and needed to be taken to a hospital. He wasn't thinking correctly. This wasn't him. She knew it. Jeremiah wouldn't harm a fly. Something horrifying had taken him over.

"Yes, a bomb. I really wish you would stop repeating everything I said, Ecco," Jeremiah continued with annoyance. Then he let out a small snicker and muttered, "Ecco." He looked over to her, but she was locked into thought, her steely gaze burrowing into the floor.

Bomb: he was going to bomb the buildings highlighted. Ecco felt her breathing accelerate. He was going to blow up populated areas; places where innocence—average men, women, and children—were just going about their lives.

"You have the most important part in my plan," Jeremiah insisted in her silence. "See, I'm trying to kill two birds with one stone—so to speak. I want to tear down Gotham and remake it anew, and, in a way, I want to do that to my very special friend Bruce. So, I need someone to be my right hand in this as well as conduct all the underground work I can't without attracting attention. Naturally, that someone is you. You understand?"

People were going to get hurt. Ecco knew it. With what Jeremiah was proposing—hundreds—no thousands of people were going to be hurt or killed. The worst part of it was that Jeremiah couldn't succeed. He'd get caught; people who came up with schemes like this always did. She wouldn't see him behind bars. She couldn't be a part of it.

Suddenly, Ecco was yanked forward by the wrist. She was suddenly pulled to Jeremiah's side and he gripped both of her hands in his. Without further notice, Jeremiah was stepping side to side with her in a sort of awkward dance. Ecco glanced up at him with confusion.

"You looked like you were having trouble thinking," Jeremiah said trying to ease her confusion. "Physical exercise can get the blood flowing which helps thought. Dancing is physical exercise, ergo, dancing."

There it was: a glimmer of Jeremiah. Only he would think to explain it like that. Ecco felt a little eased by it and fell into the dance with him. Whatever happened to him, Jeremiah was still there: somewhere. It was just buried under whatever the gas had made.

"Is this helping?" Jeremiah asked as he spun her out.

"Jeremiah," Ecco shook her head as she came back to him. "I'm still not following." She reasoned that, if she could feign ignorance, she could convince him from a non-argumentative point that he was severely out of line. "I don't understand how this will achieve your goal of upstaging Jerome. What better way to do it than to complete the battery normally and become revered by the people. You could outdo him through your works. Surely that is a less co—"

"Sweet Ecco," He talked like she was a child. "If Jerome was good at running and I promised to outdo him, I would not climb a tree to show I was a better runner. I have to play by his rules, by his twisted playbook and intend to beat him at everything he ever attempted. The only difference is I'm going to do it sanely."

Sanely? Ecco shook her head. What he was saying—it wasn't him.

"Ecco," Jeremiah continued. "I want to show the new me. You understand? You know better than anyone that Gotham needs to be rebuilt from the ground up. To do that things have to go: like the GCPD, like the mayor, like the clocktower."

She was still silent, deep in thought as everything spun in her head. Jeremiah studied her intently.

"I trust you're not doubting me, Ecco," Jeremiah sighed seeing the look in her eye. "This plan is going on whether you're with me or not. I certainly hope I can count on you." Jeremiah twirled her out again, but when she returned she felt a shock go through her. His hand had left her side and now rested on her throat. He wasn't hurting her, but he wasn't holding her out of kindness. Jeremiah stared at her with apathetic eyes.

"Jeremiah," Ecco breathed as the hand rested on her throat. "Jeremiah, what are you doing?"

"I hope you're not going to betray me. You've been my constant companion for years. You are very important to my plan, dear Ecco," Jeremiah leaned in close, so that he was whispering in her ear, "And I'd  _hate_  to have to kill you."

A shiver went down her spine. He meant it. She saw it in his eyes. He would do it, there was a killer instinct in them. His thumb rested on her jugular applying a constant pressure. Ecco knew Jeremiah's strength. She could easily repel him with a quick move of her free hand. Something stopped her. She couldn't hurt him; she couldn't incapacitate him. The thought of doing so went against every single part of her being. She had been loyal to him since the beginning and she couldn't stop now. She couldn't hurt him. She couldn't do it. She needed to follow him. It was the only way to see how he had changed and how she could help him.

"Ecco," Jeremiah said with a hint of demand in his voice. He needed an answer.

Ecco reverted to her robotic tone: "I'm with you."

A cold smile crossed his lips, "Good, there's work to be done."

* * *

Scarecrow, otherwise known by his worldly name Jonathan Crane, was busy in his laboratory located in a small abandoned building. He might have set up somewhere he had more access to chemicals, but his status as a wanted attempted bio-terrorist restricted such high-profile targets. He couldn't risk getting captured again and shipped back to Arkham. It would keep him from doing his experiments. It wasn't  _his_  lab. It used to be an illegal drug lab, but he took care of the previous owners rather quickly. Cockroaches and birds, such interesting fears they had possessed. Currently, he was stewing over a new batch of fear toxin. The combination now came to him as easily as breathing. He used the various beakers, bubblers, and burners to formulate his concoction. It was almost perfected, all it needed was a test subject. He just needed to pull out the final junkie out of the closet to test it on him. The junkie certainly wouldn't enjoy his last trip. Scarecrow grinned at the prospect.

Suddenly, there was a sound, a quiet sound, the squeak of a door hinge from behind. He tilted his head as soft footsteps pad on the floor. He reached for his scythe, a cruel weapon he had fashioned to commune with his scarecrow persona. The footsteps grew closer and he smiled. In a split second, he swung backwards in a wide arc. Surely, it would catch the intruder with the blade, cutting their abdomen open. But there was no jerk at sudden impact, the blade went cleanly through the air. There was a thump, and Crane caught a glimpse of the end of a backwards summersault. The figure was feminine with a white mask obscuring her face. Scarecrow paused, she didn't take up a fighting stance, instead opting to hold her hands in a gesture of peace.

"I wish to talk, Crane," The woman said.

"What vexing vixen comes at this hour?" Scarecrow asked intrigued at the nonaggressive figure. It was the first time in a while that he hadn't been attacked on sight.

"One with a case study and an opportunity." Something clattered to the ground and slid over on the floor: a file. He picked it up, careful to maintain a watchful eye on the stranger. He saw the name on the file and grinned.

"Tell me, what do you wish me to do with this?"

"Do what you do best," the woman nodded. "We'll provide the venue, the subject, and a little extra stimulus; you provide the toxin and oversee the experiment to completion."

"Seems almost skewed in my favor," Scarecrow mused. "You must really hate this child to be willing to do this."

"Not hate, my employer was hoping for a specific response."

"Specific response?" Crane asked. "I work with chemicals not magic or mind manipulation. I can prompt a certain general reaction, like experiencing fear. Eliciting a certain response is infinitely more difficult. I can make someone experience fear, but I cannot choose what they envision."

"But you have made specialty toxins before," she said it with confidence, like she knew it to be true.

Scarecrow tilted his head, "To what are you referring?"

"There was a special blend of your insanity gas that Jerome Valeska asked you to make. You know of it?"

"Never before tested," Crane whispered. "Jerome instructed me to make it special. What became of it, I do not know."

"What was it meant to do?" The woman seemed intrigued by it.

Crane cocked his head to the side, "It was created to liberate the darker, truest parts of the mind. That's what he told me to make; so, that's what I made in theory. What it does, I'm not sure. Jerome never let me test it specifically. He told me there was only one he was going to test it on and burned my formula right after I concocted it. I do not know for sure the outcome, it could drive the mind to insanity like the other gas I made for him or it may have no lasting effect. Doesn't matter, it made laughter, not screams; it does not interest me."

"So, you're not sure whether or not it changes someone completely. Do you even have a projection of how it might affect someone?"

"Why such questions about a lost work of mine?" Crane tilted his head. "I cannot see your face, but I can tell you're frightened by the prospect of its use. Or. . ." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Perhaps it already has brought something terrifying into the world."

"Answer me, ragman," She growled. "Does it turn someone into something they are not?"

"You should do well to allow caution into your voice," The scythe was raised to point at her. "Fear, can save you yet. But," he leafed through the file, "I do enjoy a good case study." He glanced back over to her to answer the question, "It may. It may not. I do not know. I cannot give you the answer you seek."

The figure sighed. Ecco hadn't gotten her answer and was nowhere near the truth. She didn't know if this new Jeremiah was the real Jeremiah or something concocted in a bottle. She needed to know the extent of the effects on him to truly be able to help him. Now that seemed impossible. She knew something had changed in him, but she was not entirely sure what.

Scarecrow didn't pay any more mind to her. He was engrossed in the file before him. What an interesting target. How would his terrors manifest?

"Can you do it?" Ecco asked.

"Absolutely. This mind will be most interesting to study." Crane smiled under his mask. He pulled out a photo from the file, "Tell me, Mr. Wayne, what do you fear?"

* * *

"So, he doesn't know the formula?" Jeremiah grumbled at the news from Scarecrow. "And they call him a genius chemist. Who wouldn't memorize it?"

"Was it important?" Ecco asked.

"Of course." Jeremiah said. "Every task I give you is of upmost importance." Jeremiah shook his head. "I was hoping to give Bruce a dose. The gas has allowed me to fight off Jerome—open myself to the possibilities—free me from my insanity. Now, I'll have to make due with vanilla scarecrow toxin. This could work. It could, but it'll be more difficult." Jeremiah hummed tunelessly as he thought.

The gas had definitely changed him; she had seen the changes over the past couple of days. He was so much different since when she left him the morning of the presentation. It wasn't simply his appearance either; his voice, habits, fixations, everything seemed to have changed. He was incredibly prone to mood swings, especially when it came to anger. Sometimes he was docile, calm, even joking at times; other times he would lock her out of his room or the compound or would shake, repressing a sort of violence. He hated the swings almost as much as she did. Every time it happened, he would berate himself in mutters. He kept explaining to himself that he was sane; that a sane man wouldn't suddenly burst out into a fit of rage. He was obsessed with being perceived as sane. He told her he was stable at almost every chance he could get, as if he were trying to prove it to her and himself. He maintained that monotone voice to keep his swings in check—or perhaps to hide them from her. When she inquired about the tone of voice, he had told her, "Oh, I got the idea from you, dear Ecco. You are the sanest person I know. The persona you put on for others is quite intriguing. Hopefully, you don't mind me borrowing the role."

Actually, she was horrified. She couldn't help but blame herself for encouraging him.

Suddenly, Ecco's cellphone rang. It could only mean one thing at the moment, and Jeremiah turned around to look at her expectantly as she checked the caller ID.

"Bruce?" Jeremiah asked eagerly; he knew that answer already. "What is it: third time this week? Someone misses me."

Ecco opened the phone and swapped to the more stoic tone of voice, "Yes, Mr. Wayne."

"Hello, Ecco. I was hoping to speak with Jeremiah to see how he is doing."

Ecco glanced over to Jeremiah but he shook his head. He didn't want to show this new self to Bruce until it was truly appropriate—so no contact of any kind.

"He's busy and cannot be bothered," Ecco said simply. "I'm sure you understand."

Jeremiah waved his arms to draw her attention then mouthed the words: "Tell him I said: 'hello.'"

Ecco had to restrain a sigh, "But, know that Jeremiah sends his rega—"

"Warmest," Jeremiah mouthed the words.

"—His  _warmest_  regards." Ecco finished.

Bruce hesitated for a moment, "Ecco, is everything alright? He has been busy for a while and my engineering staff has been worried. They say that he might be a little sick."

Ecco glanced over to Jeremiah, who couldn't hear the conversation. Ecco paused: maybe she should tell someone. Jeremiah clearly wasn't in his right mind. Maybe she could tell Captain Gordon, he'd know what to do, or perhaps Bruce, he would actually care what happened to Jeremiah. Yes, she could turn him in. She could convince them to take him, get him help. He hadn't done anything that would cause him to serve actual prison time—especially since there was the coercion of the insanity gas. They would take him to Arkham; he'd receive mental help; then the old Jeremiah would come back. She could save him from her mistake. She could be loyal to him that way: save him from what he was about to do.

But then what?

There was nothing for her. Jeremiah would take center attention—labeled a liability and shipped off to Arkham. She would be commended for turning him in, patted on the head like a child, and sent off. To where? Damned if she knew. She had nothing but her job and Jeremiah. Her special skills were those that were mostly appreciated by the criminal type, and she felt like she would fall into that trap or go back to her old menial job. She looked at Jeremiah. He would never forgive her for turning him in either. It wasn't like Arkham was a haven that would help him improve; if anything, his mental health would worsen. She couldn't bear the idea of him resenting her.

There was also that nagging voice in her head:  _This is all your fault._

She was the reason Jeremiah was like this. She failed to protect him, failed to keep him safe. Now, he was suffering because of her. She couldn't cause him more suffering by shipping him off to be prodded and poked by people who couldn't care as much as she did. If anything, she should try and help him instead of relying on someone else. She had to bear the burden of her failings.

"He's fine. He's busy. You know how it is."

Bruce sighed, "Alright then, thank you, Ecco, goodbye." He clicked off.

"Did he sound concerned?" Jeremiah queried immediately.

"Yes, I'd say he's rather worried about you," Ecco said—a tinge of her own concern etching into her voice.

It was lost on Jeremiah.

"It's a pleasant feeling, having someone so concerned about you." Jeremiah actually let a hint of emotion into his voice. "Do you know what that feels like, Ecco?"

The question stung. Working for Jeremiah had caused a toll on Ecco's life that she often didn't want to admit. Her family was either dead or distant. With her busy schedule dedicated to Jeremiah, she never had enough time in the day to cultivate anything like a friendship. The people that cared about her were essentially non-existent. Now, the only person she thought ever cared about her had been transformed into an obsessive, laughing maniac—no he wouldn't like it if she thought of him that way.

Ecco let a moment of remorseful silence pass over her, "I guess not."

He brushed on like he didn't hear her, "Of course, sometimes concern is annoying. Take for example the parental helicopter that its Alfred Pennyworth. If only that butler would stay out o—" he paused. "Butler. . ." He turned around and started to draft again on the planning board, "Yes. The butler. Of course, that's how I'll do it."

She watched him scribble away on the blueprint. Before, seeing such inspiration and hard work go into the creation of his next project would have brought her pride. Now, knowing it would result in death, she was disturbed by the fascination he showed. She wondered what was going through his mind as she often did now. He muttered to himself, but she could never make sense of it. It was like he was having dialogue with someone not there—perhaps a way to sort through his thoughts. Even then, the excerpts she heard didn't make complete sense. The notion sparked an idea: maybe she could change his mind about the plan with a bit of dialogue.

"Jeremiah?" Ecco called to him.

"What?" He snapped; he was irritated she interrupted him.

Ecco paused, trying to phrase the sentence in a convincing way, "Is this what you want?"

Jeremiah stilled for a moment. He took a pondering glance at her then back down to the blueprint, "Of course this is what I want."

"Are you sure?" She tried to explain her point. "You're going to be at war with the GCPD; you're going to alienate Wayne. What you're doing is going to kill people—"

"How dare you doubt me now!" Jeremiah let a rare scowl cross his features. "I remember someone dedicating their life to me."

She let some of her actual concern into her words, "I'm just suggesting that perhaps you might not be thinking straight. The gas might have impacted you somehow. We need to take you to a doc—"

A hand gripped Ecco's costume, and she was jerked forward. Jeremiah yanked her close. His eyes burned with fury. Jeremiah was eerily calm—aside from the sudden burst of force—for one of his angry swings. He was trying to maintain his composure, trying to be "sane."

"There is nothing wrong with me, I assure you." Jeremiah purred coolly now inches from her face. "Now get back to work."

He shoved her back harshly. Ecco stumbled back. She looked over to Jeremiah, who was already turned back around to his plan. She bit back embarrassment. She had been stupid. He wasn't going to listen to her.

"Jeremiah, I'm sorry. I just wa—"

"Get to work," He snapped.

Another laughing fit broke out suddenly. Jeremiah gripped his stomach and bent over the plans. Ecco was immediately at his side but he wouldn't have it.

"Out." He ordered between laughs now practically on his knees.

Ecco slowly backed away from him. She bit her lip. She couldn't help him now. Feeling dejected and ashamed, she turned away and exited through the door leaving him to his laughter.

* * *

Ecco stashed the gun into her holster. She hoped she wouldn't have to use it, but, if worse came to worse, she would be forced to. Ecco had her mission: rally Jerome's acolytes into a frenzy against the GCPD, preoccupy Gordon when he searches the bunker, and keep him there until proclamation is delivered, then rendezvous at Wayne Enterprises. The first part would be easy. She had spent the past several days finding Jeremiah supporters among Jerome's flock. It wasn't hard. After Jeremiah had his encounter with the cultists, it seemed to have sparked a bit of a holy debate. There were those who believed that he was the new Jerome, and they were eager to receive "special" instruction from him. Then she just let it leak to the Jerome fundamentalists the location of Jerome's grave. They were planning to hold a pathetic funeral for their mad god. It was the perfect opportunity to send them into a violent tailspin. Ecco couldn't help but admire Jeremiah's plan. It was honestly masterful, efficient. He was going to achieve his goal. The only thing that bothered her was that there was no escape plan. She thought maybe he would have planned to procure a way out of Gotham, but no. He wanted to stay. He wasn't going to leave.

"Well, how do I look?" She turned to see Jeremiah step out of the wash room. He looked completely normal. Makeup was painted on his skin to make it appear more normal and color contacts darkened his irises. He looked almost normal, if a bit pale. There was a pang in Ecco's chest. She missed him: the old Jeremiah.

"Good, normal," Ecco nodded quickly.

Despite his attempts to hide it, Jeremiah was a buzz of excitement. Today was the day: the day his plan was going to be enacted—the day he was going to take center stage. The excitement was almost contagious, she felt herself smile at the change in Jeremiah's demeanor. He had been angry and anxious before, but now he was just gleaming with excitement.

Even though there was that excitement, the pit in her stomach twisted into a knot. The plan was going to kill people. She felt like she should stop him, if not for Gotham, then for herself—stop it before she went too far, and she did something she would never come back from. She stopped. She shouldn't think about it, not now. Turning him in wasn't an option, so she would protect him from the consequences of his plan. That was all she could do.

Ecco noticed something, "Glasses."

"Oh right," Jeremiah nodded. "I've gotten so used to seeing without them."

Possibly the only benefit from the gas was Jeremiah's myopia being miraculously cured. Jeremiah merely shrugged off the fact like it was nothing. Ecco always wondered why Jeremiah wore glasses when Jerome—being his identical twin—needed no such correction. She had originally thought that they might have been a placebo, and his condition a mental projection. That proved to be false as he needed to change the lenses so that he could see through the glasses with no issue. He slid them on, but as he did, the makeup on his nose was wiped and a hint of white peeked through.

"Jeremiah, here," Ecco reached over to the foundation and went to work fixing it.

"Thank you, Ecco," he said in a tone with inflection and reminiscent of his old self.

Ecco visibly perked up as she saw this change.

"Are you alright, Ecco?" the monotone voice had returned in response to her change.

"I am completely fine, Jeremiah," Ecco said in her robotic tone of voice as her hopes were dashed.

"Oh, don't give me that," Jeremiah rolled his eyes. "Don't give me the Ecco everyone else sees. I know you." He seemed to ponder what she was upset about. "You have a problem with the plan."

"I don't Jeremiah; it will go flawlessly."

Jeremiah studied her.

"I do have to admit," Jeremiah muttered in a nonchalant way. "It does  _sound_  insane, but, rest assured it comes from a very sane mind. It is merely the idea of a madman, but I promise that I am sane. So that should put your mind at ease."

"Like I said," Ecco continued, "I trust it will go perfectly."

Jeremiah stared at her; he didn't like the dismissive response.

"It's the killing part then," Jeremiah said, he continued as a shock went through Ecco. "Yes, that's what has you all perturbed. You haven't killed before, have you."

Ecco slowly shook her head.

"I admit it's virgin territory for the both of us," Jeremiah shrugged. "But, as that revolutionary once said, 'you can't make and omelet without breaking a few eggs.' It's an acceptable loss for the change I provide."

"Of course," Ecco muttered. She still didn't like the idea of people dying, but what could she do? She couldn't bring herself to turn him in; she couldn't bring herself to betray him—make him hate her. She loved him too much to do that. So, she would reluctantly follow him to the ends of the earth.

Jeremiah didn't relent his interrogation. He didn't like it. He didn't like the look she gave him. He knew she was loyal—faultlessly loyal, but he knew she still had little thoughts that pinged around in her head. Thoughts that were full of doubt. She believed in him, but not the cause. That was a danger. It would only take a split second for those thoughts to overcome her and her to switch sides. He knew the second she saw an opportunity to peacefully disable him, she would take it. That was not acceptable. He needed her as dedicated to their cause as she was to him.

"Why do you care about those people anyway?" Jeremiah asked. "What have the corrupt, cowardice, the narcissistic, all the people of Gotham done for you? They're predictably apathetic to the world around them. They put on faces of kindness with no meaning behind it. They've allowed their city to become rotten and maniacs to run wild." He tried a different angle, "Think of how they reacted to me that night."

Ecco frowned. He had told her about his day with Bruce, how the board had been hostile, how the people looked at him with fear and rejection, how he had been escorted out of a museum for no reason, how even his old acquaintances wouldn't hold a calm conversation with him. The cards were stacked against him. She knew it too. Genius was something uncommon, something to be feared. He had always been special; people resented him for it. She knew they were all jealous of him.

Jeremiah saw her expression, maybe he could use her affection for him as a weapon. He allowed a bit of sadness into his voice, "Ecco they would have never accepted me. There was no place for the other Jeremiah in that world: he was simply an object to be abused. There is no place for," He gestured to his face. "this face, with or without makeup. It would have never worked. They looked at me like I was a spectacle; they always have. So, why not give them something to look at? And why not make them into the animals they hide so well." He tapped the journal on the desk. "Jerome specifically went on and on about the ways people hid themselves. I think it was the only nugget of truth in his entire spiel about chaos. So why not bring that out? Show them for who they really are? In the chaos, you'll see that these people are not people, but animals."

Ecco nodded somberly. She didn't care for the people of Gotham, she just wanted the old Jeremiah back. She ignored his speech and kept her tone, "I'll get to it. Don't worry, I will do everything to the letter."

Jeremiah knew she wasn't completely convinced—she was being rather difficult actually—but she was persuaded enough. That was fine. He'd work on it. He put his hand on her shoulder and rubbed his thumb on her neck. He picked up her white mask, taking a quick look at the vacant expression on it; then he pulled back the elastic and slipped it on over her face.

He gave a small smile, "I know you will."

* * *

Ecco rubbed her jaw as she stood in the alley way next to the Wayne building. The explosion had gone off at the right time—only allowing her a few second to escape. Her ears were still ringing from the sound, and she had a bruise that she had gotten when the shock of the explosion behind her caused her to skid harshly on her motorcycle. All that paled in comparison with the bright bruise on her lower cheek from where Gordon had hit her. Damn, he had a punch to him. He was a much better fighter than she had expected. She looked out towards the busy street as she rubbed her jaw.

Ecco was beginning to worry. Jeremiah was off schedule by five minutes. He was supposed to meet her at the side door to the Wayne building to use his key card, enter, and steal the batteries. Now he was late. He promised he wouldn't be late. Everything that could go wrong started to buzz in her mind like static. Jeremiah could have been thwarted by Bruce, he was strong enough to fight off Jeremiah. She knew Bruce wouldn't harm Jeremiah—the boy didn't seem like one to kill—but then Jeremiah would be out of commission and the plan foiled. That was the best outcome. Another worry sprang up: what if Jerome's cultists got to them? Jeremiah was sure he could sway the masses to his side, but what if he was wrong. What would they do to him if they decided to stay loyal to Jerome? A vision of Jeremiah being buried alive in Jerome's grave flashed through her mind. She wished she had gone with him—then she could have helped! She hated being so far away—so worried about him. She reached for her phone to contact him. It was against protocol, but she needed to know.

Suddenly, a small moving-truck swerved into the side alleyway with a screech. Ecco felt a wash of relief flow over her. Things were going fine. She felt a little stupid for worrying as the back opened and out stepped Jeremiah followed by his loyal followers. Jeremiah wasted no time doling out instructions. Without a second's notice, he walked directly past her and used his keycard to unlock the door. He didn't pay her mind, didn't even notice her. With that, he stepped inside followed by a group of them.

Jeremiah spun to one of the cultists. He fished into his pocket and tossed a small device at him, "Take that to the room seventeenth floor, third door to the left, has the name Crowley on it. Place the charge in a drawer, possibly a paper drawer where important files are kept. Activate it, you'll have ten seconds to close the drawer and set the trap, if you don't you'll get a face full of shrapnel. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Jero—" there was a flicker of anger that crossed Jeremiah's expression "—I mean Jeremiah."

The cultist scurried off quickly to avoid any further wrath. Jeremiah continued with other instructions: where to destroy lingering blueprints, where the other engineers for the project were, where to pull up the truck for loading. By now, Jeremiah had nearly perfected his "sane" persona; except for the occasional slip, he allowed no emotion into his expression. It was incredibly eerie but seemed to fuel the cult's fascination with him. Nothing was said to Ecco. She started to feel slightly hurt as the others had their clear-cut missions—yet she was still in the dark. Eventually, it was just the two of them and Jeremiah checked his watch seemingly deep in thought.

"Jeremiah," Ecco said rather forcefully.

Finally, he seemed to realize Ecco existed, "Oh, good. You didn't die in the explosion. I was worried for a moment." He gestured to her. "Come with me."

He led her down a hallway, leaving the others to their individual tasks. He quickly started to explain everything that had happened over the past couple of hours.

"Everything went perfectly," Jeremiah started talking to her like it was a casual conversation over coffee. "I got Bruce to come out to the grave—you should have seen his face, he was completely questioning his mental constitution. Then the icing on the cake was when the workshop blew, and he knew that I'd killed Gordon. His face was just perfectly contorted into that angry look he gets." He paused suddenly. "You did manage to subdue Gordon until the explosion—correct?"

"Yes," Ecco mumbled. She hadn't witnessed Gordon's death, but she had barely escaped the blast herself. It would be a miracle if he had escaped. "He's dead."

"Perfect," Jeremiah nodded approvingly. "Now there is only that moron Bullock in charge; he won't be able to deal with this kind of crisis."

Jeremiah reached a turn in the hallway. He was about to turn down it when he heard conversation. He quickly pushed himself up against the wall, crouched down, and peeked quickly around the corner.

"Oh, I see my bribe didn't make its way down to the guards," Jeremiah sighed annoyed as he pulled his head back around. "Looks like this will be messy. Ecco, take care of them."

Ecco hesitated. She'd always considered that her job would have violent implications and probably lead her to kill someone, but she never thought it would be in cold blood. Gordon was an obstacle, someone who wouldn't stop until Jeremiah was caught or killed—just like Jerome. Jeremiah had afforded her a kindness by leaving Gordon's demise to the bomb. She always suspected that if she ever killed anyone, it would be someone who would kill Jeremiah on the spot and a life or death, split-second decision. This was not that, it was premeditative, an aggression against someone else. It made her sick to think about it. Now that the moment was upon her, she couldn't bring herself to move. She glanced down at the gun on her hip.

Jeremiah sensed her hesitation and stood with a flicker of alarm, "Ecco, what's the dilemma?"

"I just," she shook her head. "There has to be another way. We could get through the ventilation shaft, I'm su—"

"Ecco," Jeremiah's voice was level and cold. He was biting back his anger; she couldn't give up him now. "This is the easiest, quickest, and sanest way to go about this. Ventilation shaft? Do you hear how  _insane_  that sounds—crawling around like a rat in a metal ventilation shaft trying to remain silent—it would never work." He seemed to shift closer to her, looming over her with his height. "You helped kill James Gordon earlier. Don't fail me now."

"That was different, I wasn't pulling the trigger. I just," She paused and swallowed. "Jeremiah, I don't think I can. I've never killed anyone." She dropped her gaze.

"Ecco, it's not that hard, just squeeze the trigger. I was even able to do it." Ecco looked up at him when he said it. Only now did she notice the specs of blood that speckled his ear and a bit of his clothing. He had killed someone. She swallowed.

"Jeremiah, I can't," She knew the weight of her words. "I know this means that you will probably kill me, but I ca—"

He was losing her. He couldn't lose her. She was the only one who could assist him, the only one he could count on.

"Ecco," Ecco was surprised at the sudden softness in his voice but what surprised her even more was a hint of childish worry. "I can't do this without you. You are the  _only_ person I trust enough with this task. I don't trust any of those idiots out there to be smart enough to take your place. You know that I need this. Don't let two overpaid meat bags get in the way of that."

"Jeremiah, I can't," She couldn't meet his eye.

Jeremiah had to stop his hands from moving. His immediate—not-sane—reaction was to wring her neck for even thinking about failing him but killing her would leave him a lieutenant short. That wasn't a sane action. He was better than his impulses. He needed her. Violence wasn't the way to go about convincing her. She wasn't weak and her animal instinct to survive would surely overtake her loyalty to him. Their relationship had to be one of give and take, and he knew he was asking for more than she was willing to give. He needed to give her incentive, something she desired more than anything.

Suddenly, Ecco felt his hand under her chin. This time, it was gentle and coaxing. She looked up into his pale eyes and was surprised to find compassion in them. He ran his thumb over the bruise on her jaw.

"Sweet Ecco," Jeremiah smiled. "I believe in you. You will come through. I have the upmost faith in you."

Ecco shook her head, "Jeremiah this isn't yo—"

Ecco was silenced when Jeremiah's lips touched hers. She was shocked by the sudden action but didn't give a second thought as she melted into him. It was too short; he pulled away.

"I need you, Harley," Jeremiah's expression remained soft. He'd called her by her real name. Jeremiah had been so keen on using a codename—a paranoid invention to protect her original identity—for her that she was almost sure he had forgotten her real name. It was no slip of the tongue as he looked at her now. He took a finger and twirled a lock of her hair. "I know I ask a lot of you, but I cannot do this without your assistance."

Ecco was speechless. Who was she to doubt him? Who was she to sabotage his plan? She'd given everything to him. She had honestly never been her own; she was ok with that. Jeremiah was going to do something impactful, something that would change everything. Out of all of the people in the world, he chose her to work with him. He actually cared. He was concerned. She  _mattered_ to him. She was a part of his plan. He couldn't do it without her. She owed the direction of her life, her employment, everything to him. Why should she stop supporting him now? How could she ever betray the man she loved?

"So please," Jeremiah whispered. "Just follow my lead."

Jeremiah stepped out into the hallway; Ecco shadowed him, hiding behind him. The hallway was poorly lit, one of the lights broke earlier that week. However, the stony guards picked up on Jeremiah's approach. It only took a silhouette for both of the guards to recognize the engineer, who had passed through several times the week before.

"Hey there, Mr. Valeska," One of the guards greeted familiarly; then, spotting the shadow of Ecco behind him, asked, "Is Mr. Wayne with you?"

"No, no," Jeremiah said slowly, giving enough time for him to close the distance. "No Mr. Wayne, but I did bring a guest."

Suddenly, a light from another room illuminated the hallway. The quick flash was enough to alert the guards to Jeremiah's odd appearance. They immediately drew their weapons, not to shoot him, but to order him to stop. They didn't get the chance.

_BANG! BANG!_

The two shots rang out in the hallway. Both guards dropped to the floor. Jeremiah kept walking forward to the downed guards. Ecco walked behind him stiffly. She betrayed no emotion as he applauded her.

"Good girl," Jeremiah said as he reached down to retrieve the keycard. She did the same and with a nod, they opened the door with simultaneous swipes of the cards.

There was no going back. That was the first thing that ran through her mind. Ecco hadn't taken a long look at the guards, but she knew they were dead. She'd killed them. She killed someone in cold blood. She was a murderer. Ecco let the fact seep into her psyche while Jeremiah strolled into the storage room. She followed him in, stepping over the limp arm of the man who had greeted Jeremiah warmly less than a minute ago.

Inside the room were the finished batteries. Jeremiah had sent out the final instructions the previous day to the staff and told them to finish quickly and quietly—a surprise for Bruce. Those instructions still hung on the wall; it bore the signature of the head designer: Jack Napier—a fictitious man invented to appease stockholders. Of all the insults, Jeremiah being denied his signature on his own project had to be the most egregious. Ecco now completely understood. Jeremiah would have never been accepted. He would never have garnered the acclaim and recognition he deserved. He would have been shoved to the side, stashed away like a dirty secret, then left to his own devices. He wouldn't have lasted long under those circumstances. The world wouldn't have accepted him like she did—now she was going to help force the world to acknowledge him.

Ecco glanced over to Jeremiah. He stood confident, strong, unstoppable. He seemed pleased. A small laugh escaped from Jeremiah, he covered his mouth like he was coughing. A part of her wished he didn't try to hide it. His laugh—while sometimes unsettling—was something that she had rarely witnessed in all his time underground. It brought her joy to hear it, even if it was a simple compulsion. Ecco realized something: Jeremiah was happy. In that moment, he was content for the first time. She had brought that about.

_So, this is the true J._

The thought crossed her mind like a ping. She hadn't thought about it since originally reading Jerome's journal, but it was true. This was the true Jeremiah. A happy, content genius that was unhindered by his paranoia. The gas hadn't affected him except for taking away his fear. All the timorous actions, the bursts of fear he'd suffered, the docility, all the suffering that he had inflicted upon himself in isolation was gone. The confidence, genius, laughter, strength, it was all a part of his true self. She had been so concerned with the "old" Jeremiah that she didn't realize it. This was Jeremiah. He had finally come into fruition. He was no longer stifled like she had feared. He had finally become the man he had been hiding away all those years.

Jeremiah finally stopped his laughing and stood—regaining his dour tone as he turned to her, "Bring the trucks around. Let's load up!"

Ecco beamed, "Sure thing, Mr. J."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you're here, you are all caught up with all that I have written on FFN. I should update in the next two-ish weeks: I'm in college so I'm approaching finals. Hopefully, you have enjoyed what I have so far, and you'll stick around. Tell me what you think, and thank you for reading!


	13. A Little Torment, A Little Pain, A Little Explosion

Bruce's head felt like a block of cement. His temple throbbed as he attempted to lift himself. He was lying on something with a fabric feeling. His head swam, and his vision was blotchy as he opened his eyes. He saw steel grey clouds overhead. Confusion washed over him at the sight of the clouds; he started to piece together that he was knocked out—by what, he wasn't sure. He attempted to look around. He found himself resting on some legs; confused, Bruce look up. The smiling face of Jerome stared back at him.

A shock of primal fear shot through him, and he scrambled away from the corpse. His immediate surroundings were revealed to be a fissure in the ground. He clawed at the side of the grave and tried to scale his way up. In his haste, his foot slipped, and he fell backwards onto Jerome's legs. He quickly pulled himself up and pushed his back against the wall of the grave. His heart was thumping out of his chest. His mind churned in horror.

Bruce spent a moment to collect himself inside the grave. He took some deep breaths and calmed himself. The primitive fear subsided as he studied the corpse. For a corpse of over a week, Jerome was relatively not decayed. It was probably because of his strange resurrection. His eyes were closed, and he lay incredibly limply. There was still that damn smile, the smile that had been carved into his skin. Despite the lifelessness of the corpse, the smile seemed fresh, like he was grinning from below at Bruce's predicament.

A thought sped through his mind: how did he get there? Memories suddenly came back in flashes. He met with Jeremiah; the battery worked. Jeremiah was distressed—poisoned with Jerome's gas. He tried to help Jeremiah; he tried to save him from the insanity. Jeremiah pulled a gun, then attacked him and... Bruce was confused for a moment, he wondered if he was remembering wrong. He wasn't; the porcelain white skin, monotone voice, the explosion, casual homicide—it was all vividly imprinted in his mind. Bruce leaned up against the wall of the grave as images swirled in his head.

Bruce finally had time to process the events of an hour ago. Before, it had all been too fast to react, too fast to properly think about what happened. He was still in the throes of shock. He had lost Jeremiah. He shook his head; he couldn't think about it like that. He couldn't lose another friend. Too many people had died on his watch: his parents, Karen, Alex Winthrop. This one seemed worse, losing someone to death was an irreversible lose, but at least they were laid to rest. Jeremiah was still alive, even worse, Bruce wasn't sure that it  _was_  truly Jeremiah who was acting out. It was his shell being piloted by something else.

Worst of all: Bruce felt like he could still save Jeremiah.

Bruce knew the notion was absurd. He had often been told by Alfred and Selina—mostly Selina—that he had a bit of a hero complex. If Jeremiah was acting under the influence of whatever chemicals were in his mind, then he was innocent. These actions weren't his own volition; he could find a way to cure him. He would find a way to save him, there was always a way, he just needed to find it.

Then there was Jerome's corpse smiling at him. Bruce felt rage boiling inside of him. It was all Jerome's fault. Jerome's toxin had been the thing that destroyed Jeremiah's mind. Bruce felt the childish need to retaliate. He wanted to kick him, wanted to inflict the same pain on him as what he did to Jeremiah. Jerome escaped his wrath in death. Bruce decided to leave him and scaled his way up the grave.

As he reached the top of the grave, Bruce noticed something else—the body of the cultist that Jeremiah had shot. Again, the memory came flooding back; Jeremiah shot the man without a second's notice. Another memory: Jeremiah declared Jim Gordon dead. The full weight of the situation came back to him. Jeremiah would never be the same; Bruce couldn't even guarantee that he could fix him. Even if he did, would Jeremiah be able to live with what he had done? If Jeremiah had killed Gordon, Bruce wasn't sure he could ever forgive Jeremiah.

Bruce realized that the situation was more than just him and Jeremiah. The engineer had, unwittingly or not, caused chaos and death. He would not be spared from his actions. Bruce knew when it came down to the moment, he couldn't let his personal feelings get in the way. He would try his best regardless.

As if to dash Bruce's hope, there was the sound of another explosion in the distance.

* * *

Jeremiah strode down the street. He was untouchable—or, at least, for the time being. The police couldn't do anything. They knew that any action against him would send everything sky-high; plus, they only had six hours before the whole city was a mass of rubble and fire. No doubt they were scrambling in the dark like chickens with no heads. Jeremiah knew he gave them an impossible task especially with the known slow bureaucracy of the Gotham city government, but that wasn't the point. The point was to distract from his real motive—Bruce and setting off the bombs. Such a dedication to traffic and population control meant that he would be relatively undeterred.

Jeremiah admittedly felt a sense of conceit. Everything was going perfectly, predictably well for him. It also boosted his ego to know that the idiots around him worshipped him; it felt good after years of being pushed to the side to finally be recognized—even if it was absolutely insane to think him a god. Well, there was nothing he could do but hope that eventually their insanity would be overcome by their better senses.

As he made a b-line towards their hideout, people fled from him with fear. Having such a ghastly appearance and a paramilitary group behind him evoked a terror that he hadn't seen before. The old, timid Jeremiah would have despised such reaction; now, he reveled in it. He loved having this euphoria of dominance. For the first time in his life, Jeremiah felt respected—that wasn't the point of his little plot, but it was a big bonus.

The followers enjoyed it too. They started to revert to their radical sides. They hooted and hollered as they went down the street. A couple of them took pot-shots at civilians, another shot into a store window. Jeremiah was alarmed by their sudden take to shooting randomly, chaotically, insanely. He couldn't allow it to draw attention to them.

"What do you think you're doing?" They stopped and stared at Jeremiah. They were speechless in their confusion as the man standing before them criticized them. "This is not how we do things. Follow the plan and  _then_ , after our world is built, you can do whatever you please."

"Jerome always let us—"

There was a  _BANG_ ; the cultist who spoke collapsed in a bloody pool of his own useless brain.

"What did I say about mentioning that dead lunatic?" Jeremiah rebuked his followers holding the gun so that it was pointing into the crowd of followers. He couldn't have them evoking Jerome now that he was in charge. They quieted down as he glared at them. They were like children—dogs really—and they needed to continually be reminded who was in charge.

They slowly grouped back together in a formation, "Jeremiah, Jeremiah." The call was weak, pitiful. Jeremiah rolled his eyes. He'd deal with them later.

Nothing was going to ruin his day; all he needed was to call Bruce.

* * *

Bruce felt sick to his stomach when he heard Jeremiah's voice coming from Alfred's phone. Bruce thought he would have tried to reason with the engineer, but an indescribable anger boiled up and suspended any thought of reforming his friend. Alfred was in danger; Jeremiah would have to wait until he ensured the safety of his oldest friend. Jim Gordon was almost assuredly dead, even Bullock didn't know what to believe, and he couldn't lose another part of his family. Bruce found himself growling into the phone demanding to know where Alfred was being kept. He could almost hear the smile in Jeremiah's voice as he relayed the information. Jeremiah hung up rather quickly, cutting off the conversation.

It was a trap; Bruce could sense it. Perhaps Jeremiah thought he was going to give into his hastier impulses and rush in thoughtlessly. If Jeremiah expected that, he didn't know Bruce all that well. He needed assistance someone to face whatever trap was in there. Jeremiah made it clear that he had a tail on the young man, no police. However, Jeremiah didn't mention friends, and he would probably be too busy with whatever he was plotting to call Bruce on technicalities.

There was only one person to call.

After seeing two explosions wrack the city skyline, Selina almost expected a call from Bruce on the new cellphone he had given her—for "in case." That "in case" came sooner than expected. She flipped open the phone with a bit of urgency.

"Bruce, tell me you weren't in that exp—"

"Alfred was kidnapped by Jeremiah. I need your help getting him back." It was a simple, straightforward declaration, but she could sense his strained voice.

"Sure, I'll be there," Selina bit back worry in her voice. As much as she fought with the old man, he had begrudgingly grown on her. She also hated the tone in Bruce's voice; he was scared, more scared than he would ever admit. She couldn't fail him; not after failing him the previous night by practically assisting in Ra's' resurrection.

She found the drably dressed billionaire as he parked his car. She jumped down next to him, but he didn't acknowledge her. His head was down; his jaw set in deep thought. Selina didn't say anything as they walked towards the address Jeremiah had given him. His silence worried her; she was used to him being broody and quiet, but this was a new level. She blamed the situation for that, or rather, she blamed Jeremiah. Bruce was, in a way, still very innocent when it came to friendship, once someone earned his trust, he tended to only see their best qualities—even when they were going against him. That was what had always brought her back to him, that unfaltering faith in other people. She hated Jeremiah for twisting that last semblance of innocence Bruce had and using it against him. She would hate him even more if Bruce lost that quality because of him.

"You can say it," Bruce mumbled finally. He didn't lift his eyes from the road ahead of them.

"Say what?" Selina asked.

"'I told you so,'" Bruce said with a sigh.

Selina almost sighed. Really, he would expect her to do that? Well, if she was being honest, the thought did cross her mind; it was a joking thought at best—something to ease the tension. It was when she saw the look in his eye that she knew she wouldn't even try to say something like that. It was the same feeling she had when Bridget had gone all pyromaniac Penguin enforcer and Ivy decided to become a deranged eco-warrior. It stung losing a friend to their inner demons. Despite the satisfaction about being right, she knew Bruce was probably blaming himself, again. She knew she couldn't shoulder the burden of his self-inflicted guilt; Bruce wouldn't let her. She also knew that there was probably not a way to reason Jeremiah out of it; she knew Bruce enough to know that he would have tried to reason with him before following his sadistic plan. She was left with no way to ease his burden or fix his problem. She would just have to be right beside Bruce—like always.

Selina shrugged, "Nah, I'll save it for another time. You only get so many of them in your life." Bruce gave her a small look of appreciation, he knew it was her way of comforting him. She just nodded, "Now, come on, let's go save Jeeves."

They both pulled ahead towards the warehouse.

* * *

Jeremiah would have preferred to have watched Bruce's transformation in a quiet, secluded place, but the mediocre crime lords of the Gotham underworld prevented that quickly. He was dismayed to have missed out on the entire spectacle of it all, but the rest of his plan had to be put into motion. He had retreated to his secondary hideout and waited for the right moment. That moment hadn't been soon enough; a certain broadcast had to ruin his perfect day.

Jeremiah watched as the embers of his "loyal" followers burned quickly in the napalm trap he had invented. One day, they couldn't go one day without immediately betraying him. Their faith in him was tied by a string, that string being the death of Jim Gordon, and it was a string cut in an instant. The glimmer of wonderment predictably left their eyes, and they turned on him like a pack of ravenous hyenas. He had been furious too, and their incessant yapping drove a spike of pain through his head. Now they scorched with an ungodly stench.

Jim Gordon: alive. It couldn't have been a recorded message, so that was the only conclusion. Oh, how the man vexed him with his mere existence. That hadn't been the only failing; Bullock seemed to have some sort of brainwave and figured out how to break the sequence, rendering the bombs inoperable. Jeremiah tossed the useless detonator aside. As icing on the cake of disaster, Bruce escaped from the Scarecrow due to the interference of Bruce's lady friend. It was the incompetent assistants who marred the entire operation. One little mishap, one cog out of place, and the plan broke into a million pieces; even his redundancies seemed to be falling apart piece by piece. How could he have—no, it wasn't him, it wasn't the plan that failed, it was a particular person who needed to pay.

"Jeremiah," Ecco called out from down the hall. She saw the warm glow of the other room highlighting his stony, disapproving expression. She moved toward him, confused by the silence and expression, "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, it's nothing, Ecco," Jeremiah said in the robotic voice; he shoved his hand into his pocket. "I was just burning all of the followers you handpicked."

"All of them burned?" She looked horrified as she approached, now with an air of caution, "But they were loyal to you!"

"They weren't loyal enough! Like someone else in my presence," Jeremiah pulled a handgun out from his coat pocket and pointed it lazily in her direction.

"Jeremiah," Ecco held up her hands and stopped; a flicker of betrayal crossed her face. "I have been nothing but loyal to you."

"Oh, if only that were true," Jeremiah sighed. "I guess you haven't seen the news. You failed; you failed the one task I gave you. You failed so spectacularly; I didn't even account for such a misstep from you. If there is one thing I cannot endure more than disloyalty, it's incompetence!"

"I don't—"

"Jim Gordon is  _alive_!" Jeremiah's "sane" persona was slipping as one of his mood swings came around. "I think you now grasp the severity of the situation,  _dear_  Ecco. I cannot allow such insane stupidity to fester in my plan." He gestured to her with the gun. "So, certain stupid people need to be dealt with, immediately."

Ecco inhaled shakily. She pulled her hands up as she approached him continuously, "Jeremiah, it was a simple mistake. I'll finish the job. I'll kill him. Just give me another chance."

"I cannot allow second chances, not even for you." She was only a few steps away and he pointed the gun directly at her heart. "So tha—"

The gun was seized from the side. Ecco in stepped, grabbed the gun, forced it against his fingers and slipped it from his hand. Jeremiah withdrew from her swift advance. He didn't allow the sudden shock into his expression. Ecco stared down at the gun with a surprised expression. Ecco was horrified; it had been an instinctual reaction. Despite the only injury being the slight straining of Jeremiah's finger, she felt a wash of shame flow over her. Her hand trembled with the fear she felt. How could she hurt him?

"I'm so sorry, Jeremiah," She held out the gun to him. He took it without second thought and pointed it right at her head.

"Goodbye, Ecco," Jeremiah sneered.

The urgency with which he held the gun did not translate to the immediate pull of the trigger. Jeremiah faltered. He couldn't pull the trigger. Jeremiah had a rare pang of mercy. Even after her inexcusable failure, he couldn't bring himself to kill her then. His mind conjured images of the many, many times she had assisted him. He wouldn't be where he was without her. Some part of him still felt that strange illogical emotion of gratitude. He couldn't kill her—not now anyway. She could still be useful even though he was angry with her now.

He sighed, lowered the gun, and turned his back. "Get out of my sight. I don't want to see you again."

She was gone. It happened in a second, but he knew she was gone. It was as if her presence had always had a feeling and it vanished in an instant. He looked over her shoulder; nothing but air. He had nothing now; no one who he trusted. That was good; there was no one who would disappoint him. No one to fail him. He was finally free of the idiocy that ruined his plan. He was alone.

Despite the spirit of freedom that he now had, a horrible dread filled him. Pangs of fear and paranoia—things he thought he had beaten—rose from within him with a phoenix's vengeance. The "what ifs" started to play out in his mind as his mind reached the logical conclusions of his actions. He was losing, he was going to be imprisoned. Worst of all, he wouldn't beat  _him_ at his own game. He could practically hear the taunt of that old corpse circulating in his mind, "One afternoon and you're finished, some plan, idiot."

No, it could still work. Jeremiah seized his less than sane thoughts and suppressed them. He knew that he wouldn't be beaten so easily. He would bury Jerome under his name. His plan just needed a bit of tweaking as with all things he invented. There just needed to be a few adjustments and everything would fall into line.

"Time to regroup," he addressed the only remaining member of his plan.

* * *

"So, this was all Jeremiah's doing," Alfred shook his head; he was bandaging himself in the back of the car while Bruce drove. "Bastard, his mates broke in like they knew the way around the manor. Probably used that dinner as an opportunity to scout out the place."

"Wouldn't surprise me; the guy always gave me the creeps," Selina said.

Bruce was silent the entire conversation; he was deep in thought. There had been signs and Bruce had ignored them for the sake of friendship. Alfred was now bleeding on the backseat; Bruce couldn't help but feel it was his fault. The attack was extremely personal. For someone who claimed to be Bruce's best friend, Jeremiah acted in complete contrary. The red head had unleashed a vicious attack on his psyche. Jeremiah had particularly subjected Bruce to his worst nightmare: Alfred losing his sanity. His hands were still shaking from the effects of the Scarecrow toxin; it still lingered in his mind as he saw little lights in the corner of his eye that weren't there. He knew he shouldn't have been driving, but he didn't want to worry Selina or Alfred.

It was his fault. He knew it. Jeremiah had lost his mind, Gordon was dead, and Alfred had been tortured because of him. He had been too weak to see through the scarecrow toxin, too weak to fight back against the cultists at the graveyard, too weak to tackle Jeremiah before things got out of hand. They were going to kill him. Jeremiah wouldn't be read his rights, he wouldn't be given quarter after what he did. Bruce even felt like Jeremiah's fate was his fault. If he had followed Jeremiah inside that night he had been beaten, maybe Bruce could have consoled the engineer, maybe even prevented the gas from spraying him.

"Bruce, you ok?" Selina asked as she caught the look in his eye.

"I'm sorry, for everything," Bruce said softly.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," Alfred said quickly. "It's all Jeremiah's doing."

"I know, but I made mistakes," Bruce shook his head. "I invited him into my life—into all of your lives. He was a broken man; I knew that he wasn't completely sane even before the gas. I let emotion blind me because I wanted to help him. I still feel like I could still reach him somehow; even if he's killed Gordon. I still feel like it's not him who's in control, and I can somehow help him." Bruce sighed. "Maybe I'm just crazy."

"I don't think it's crazy," Alfred shook his head. "You trusted him, and he betrayed you. Since his actions might not be completely his own, you think that there is something salvageable there. I don't think you're entirely wrong, but Jeremiah is going to have to answer for all the chaos he had been causing. Don't blame yourself; as your guardian, I should have seen the pattern long before you and put a stop to it."

"You guys can play the blame game all you want, but it's Jeremiah who's accountable for what's happened," Selina inputted. "Sane or not, Jeremiah made a choice to kill. Circumstances don't matter when people die. No one is responsible for those deaths except for Jeremiah. He's killed people, no amount of magic toxin is going to wipe that away. Whether or not he's completely aware of his actions, some part of Jeremiah killed them, and that part needs to pay."

Bruce knew she was right, she often was, but he couldn't break the guilty feeling. He also didn't abandon the idea that he could save Jeremiah. He knew the police weren't going to take a chance; they would probably shoot on sight. Bruce felt that, if he got the chance, he would rather incapacitate Jeremiah than leave his fate up to the police. Bruce realized something, just like Jerome, Jeremiah was now his responsibility. He couldn't allow Jeremiah's fate to be decided by a stray bullet.

Suddenly, the radio that had been playing softly let out a little signal for a news alert.

"I want to send a message to all of the followers of Jeremiah. I'm alive," Bruce perked up; it was the unmistakable voice of Jim Gordon. Jeremiah had failed! Jim was alive! A wash of relief flowed over him; his old friend was alive. He knew he shouldn't have doubted the tenacity of Gordon. He was always one to pull through impossible situations.

"See, you don't have to beat yourself up," Selina nodded to him with a small smile. "Things always work out for us in the end."

* * *

Jeremiah knew destiny existed. He was a man of logic but was not blind to the unknowable mysteries of the world. So, when the strange man, Ra's al-Ghul, came to him in his time of need, he knew it had to have been fate. The man was a prophet of sorts, just like Jeremiah's father, and possessed powers beyond what was knowable. He saw things, thing that concerned Jeremiah and Bruce. He told him futures and plots. It sounded like something out a fairy tale novel, dark knights, prophesies, fiery chaos, good guys, bad guys. However intrigued Jeremiah was with the story the man told, he felt like something was not right about the proposal.

"Why come to me?" Jeremiah had asked pointedly. "Forgive my ignorance, but I don't see how I fit into your little prediction."

"You, Jeremiah, are the key to this future," The mystery man said simply.

Jeremiah rolled his eyes, "My father saw the future. He had a gift really. I also know that he always inputted his own ideas to give that happy little feeling to the client and make them feel important. How do I know you're not playing to my ego?"

Ra's smiled a bit, "Jeremiah, the timid engineer, it didn't  _have_  to be you."

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow with a question.

"As a man who perceives visions, I have seen multiple timelines, multiple ways this very interaction could have played out. No matter the manner in which these timelines manifest, there is always that one person who kindles Bruce, refines him into the protector he is meant to be. It could be anyone, honestly, I've seen your brother, a violent gangster, an amnesiac, a failing entertainer all have the ability to take that role in his life through different timelines. Which man is inconsequential; the role is the same. This time it falls to you, Jeremiah. I hope that you do not deny yourself this destiny." The mysterious man took a step past Jeremiah. "For it is a destiny that would bond you and Bruce closer than any brothers."

It was a vague but intriguing proposition. He wasn't entirely sure that he believed the cloaked man; then again, he moved with a speed and silence that was impossible—magic: he could believe in it for a moment. If anything, the man offered a gift, a future designed by Jeremiah himself. Even if the man was lying through his teeth, Jeremiah knew he could carve out a destiny like that. Closer than brothers: Jeremiah would do anything to ensure that the future described happened.

That was why he was in Wayne Manor.

It didn't take too long to sneak in; his previous visit to the manor had allowed for him to get a feel for the structure and security. His followers had also disabled the alarms when they kidnapped the old butler. It was strange, but the house held a sense of nostalgia for Jeremiah. It reminded him of the mansion he had briefly occupied after being adopted. The Wyldes, a pair of elderly millionaires with disappointing children and looking for a young soul to invest in. His memories of them were brief but they left him a large sum of money. Jeremiah waved the thought aside, he couldn't get lost in his memories now. There was a job to do. The gun in Jeremiah's hand signified the gravity of the task at hand.

When Jeremiah had inquired as to what the immortal man wanted him to do, he simply smiled and said, "Do what you think is best." Jeremiah needed to finish the job he started. The old butler needed to go; that was the only way to spur Bruce into action. Another parental paternal figure disappearing from his life would trigger that change into the person Gotham needed—the person Jeremiah needed—his co-author of the city's future.

Jeremiah snuck through the halls like a mouse, taking a moment to position himself outside of the parlor. He ducked into a closet as sounds from two familiar voices. They were weary if a bit relieved. Idle chatter followed them as they made their way into the parlor at which point Jeremiah snuck over to the door and held the gun skyward. Time to shoot the old man.

Jeremiah was about to make his move when he heard the question, "Will Ms. Kyle be staying?"

"Sure." Jeremiah pulled himself back into the shadows as a third voice came from the room.

Oh, the girlfriend was still with them. Jeremiah felt a need to change targets. He hadn't accounted for her returning to the manor—she didn't seem the type to stay. Now that he thought about it, she was the perfect target. The old butler was beaten, ragged, killing him would be tired, overdone. The young vivacious girlfriend seemed like a better target. He never liked her; she was the reason his procedure with Bruce had failed so spectacularly. She was the chaotic, unpredictable factor that shook his perfect plan to its foundation. She distracted Bruce from their friendship. It was time to remove her.

Jeremiah retreated from the door as footsteps approached and hid behind a large statuette. The butler exited the room and went down the hall in the opposite direction. Jeremiah peered out from his hiding spot as the butler moved off. Little did he know that his oh so precious military awareness was about to fail him. The old man was still dazed from the trauma he had experienced; he surely would have noticed Jeremiah if he was at full capacity. With the way he now walked, he really looked much older than he probably was. He looked positively goofy as he disappeared into another room down the hall.

Jeremiah had to clamp his hand over his mouth as laughter came up again. The side effect was an ever-growing annoyance and terrible for maintaining his train of thought. It fuzzed his mind, making it harder to focus on his plan and his current silence. It was as if someone was tickling him; he couldn't control it. He mentally chastised himself, he needed to stay quiet if he was going to sneak up on them. After the laughter subsided, he snuck his way over to the door frame.

"Thank you, again," Bruce's voice came from the room. "I don't know what would have happened if you weren't there."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. The plan wouldn't have been destroyed, that was what would happen. He listened for the girl's response, but there was silence for a moment. Jeremiah felt the need to look, but he could imagine what was happening: a kiss. Jeremiah almost gagged. Bruce's taste in women was terrible.

Bruce sighed and repeated the same line from the car, "I should have listened to you. I let Jeremiah get too close; I let my guard down."

Selina sighed, she would have to work on Bruce's guilt problems. She directed away from the apology, "Yeah, but, you'd think Jeremiah would have bigger fish to fry with the whole bomb scheme. Why would he be so obsessed with you?"

Obsessed? Fascinated, sure, but obsessed sounded less stable, more insane. He would not call himself obsessed. Bruce was a character to behold; Jeremiah was just intrigued by him in a way that was indescribable.

Bruce thought for a moment, "Jeremiah talked about going insane after one bad day; maybe he was intent on bringing out whatever madness was inside me. Maybe he sensed that over our conversations. Maybe I went a little insane the night my parents died."

Jeremiah let the notion sink in. His reasoning behind the Scarecrow toxin was to reveal his true self, but he didn't think it would be insanity. His best friend was insane? He sighed. He had seen the signs, the broody anger, the wild violence, the clandestine heroism. Bruce's true nature was a little insane—possibly even a lot. In a way, that was what made Bruce such a good friend—opposites attract. Perhaps Bruce was misdiagnosing himself, but it didn't matter. He was alright with the idea of poor Bruce being insane. He accepted Bruce with all his wonderful flaws.

Jeremiah could hear hope in the young lady's voice, "Don't worry, Bruce. You proved him wrong."

It was his cue; it was as if a stage had been set and it was his line to enter. The bitch had to die.

"To be fair," Jeremiah turned into the room with the gun pointed forward. He turned in to find the lady friend right in front of him—too easy. He pressed the barrel to the middle of her abdomen. He knew he had to be fast; any delay would give Bruce or Selina the chance to retaliate. He looked Bruce directly in the eye and said, "The day's not over yet."

Bruce hesitated.

Bruce was blindsided by a sense of Déjà vu. It was happening again. He was suddenly back in the alley on that night. It was vivid, almost like a remnant of the Scarecrow toxin that was coursing through his veins. He could almost feel the night air, hear the voices of his parents, see the gun. It was happening again. The gun fired. Selina let out a cry as she sprawled backwards onto the glass table and broke through it. Bruce was in mortified shock as he looked down at Selina, a pool of her blood already forming around her. His eyes were slowly drawn back to Jeremiah as he tossed the gun on the couch.

In that moment, Bruce knew he had to make a choice. His gut instinct was to tackle Jeremiah. He wanted to beat him senseless, hurt him, make him bleed. His blood boiled with a righteous rage that he needed to let out. The rage was countered by a burning concern for Selina. She had been shot; she was be bleeding out. He needed to save her. He needed to choose.

Bruce chose her.

Bruce tore his eyes from Jeremiah just a small, almost unnoticeable grin appeared on his face. Immediately, he was at her side plugging the wound with his fingers.

Jeremiah felt a bit offended and disappointed. Bruce wasn't focusing on him. He went after his girlfriend rather than him. He was almost certain that Bruce would have tackled him out of anger. He saw the look in his eye—there was that secret, vengeful inner self that burned within him—but he had restrained himself for the bleeding lover. Jeremiah didn't have too long to think about it; Alfred suddenly slammed him to the ground. The next several seconds of Jeremiah's consciousness was hearing the concerned voice of Bruce as he tried to keep Selina conscious and Alfred's fist being thrust again and again into his face. It didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. It didn't matter, Bruce wasn't the one doing it. Jeremiah didn't resist as blood filled his mouth from a newly loose molar and his teeth cutting into his cheek. His brain rattled around in his skull and for a moment his vision went black.

The second he awoke a scene unfolded in front of him. The old man was quickly calling the police on the telephone on the desk, and Bruce was still begging for the girl to remain conscious. Jeremiah found a small flicker of amusement in his chest. The situation didn't feel real, instead it was distant, surreal—humorous. There was a dramatic, emotional scene playing out in front of him, and Jeremiah didn't feel anything. Jeremiah let out a snicker. His strange compulsion started to act up again.

Bruce found himself staring at Jeremiah. The snicker was emanating from Jeremiah as a smile crept over his face. Bruce felt something overshadow him; an indescribable anger moved through him. He felt the need to finish the job, to kick his throat in and watch him choke on his own blood. It was the same rage Bruce had felt months ago, when Ra's had taunted Bruce to kill him. For a split second, the thought of killing him drove him to move his hand. Selina made a whimper in her semi-conscious state. Bruce snapped out of his rage and reminded himself that he was applying pressure to the wound. As much as he trembled with wrath, he couldn't leave Selina's side at that moment; she was too important to lose. Jeremiah did not escape unscathed; there was a whirl of wind as Alfred advanced past Bruce. Alfred's foot connected with his head, and Jeremiah was out like a light.


	14. Burn It Down

Bruce had hesitated. That was all he could think. He had hesitated. There was a moment that he could have acted, but he had simply frozen. After all the years of training, after everything he had been through, he froze at the mere sight of Jeremiah. Selina paid the price for his incompetence.

He was pacing around the hospital waiting room like a madman. He couldn't keep still; he had too much anxiety rushing through him. He wanted to see Selina. He wanted to help her. Now, he was powerless, and he couldn't be by her side. He promised that he wouldn't leave her, and, yet, the circumstances pushed them apart. He wished he could be in the room with her. He just wanted to hold her hand and assure her that everything would be alright. This was as close as he could get. He hated every tense moment that he couldn't be beside her. He couldn't help but think that it was all his fault.

No, there was someone else he could blame.

Jeremiah—how could he have pitied that man at all? Even after tormenting Alfred, Bruce had still had some sympathy for him. He grit his teeth. Stupid and naive: how could he have been so stupid! What pained him even more was that there was still a sense of empathy towards the madman. He hated himself for it. The fact that he even felt something just fueled his anger even more.

Bruce just wanted it to be over. He just wanted Jeremiah to disappear into Arkham and never see the light of day again. That would be his final punishment: lock him in a hole and throw away the key. The only current comfort was that Jeremiah was in police custody, and he would never see him again. He needed to focus on Selina now.

As he was pacing the room, he didn't notice the men dressed in military uniform enter the waiting room. He only realized they were there when they said, "Mr. Wayne, please come with us."

* * *

Jeremiah was bored.

He sat on the floor of the interrogation room; his only company was the guard who refused to even make eye contact with him. He had previously been sitting in the barred holding cell of the GCPD amid hours of pure boredom and finally had experienced a bit of a high when Gordon decided to man-handle the location of the bombs out of him. Now, there was nothing to do. At least when he was on the floor of the GCPD, he had some of the passing by officers to look at or interact with. The police officers took turns to glare at or verbally abuse him. "Freak," "clown," "psycho," and "bastard" were a few of the standard names he had been called. He had counted for each insult and "psycho" was in the lead. He almost wished that the guard would start to verbally berate him just to give him something to think about.

Now, there was nothing but him and his immediate thoughts. Everything would go to plan, he knew it—he believed it fervently. This time he had some competent assistants. The Ra's guy didn't seem to be all too concerned with anything but ensuring Bruce's future. That was the only common goal they shared, but that was the only one they needed. Still, the points to getting there were tedious and boring. The highlights were sparse and everyone around him seemed to be completely predictable and outrageous.

He had given Gordon his demands and yet the man acted like a small child. So, predictable. If Jeremiah's skin didn't lack even the simplest of pigmentation—or perhaps it was that his face was bleached completely white—he would have new colorful bruises on his shoulders and face where the captain had slammed him into the wall. They were the effects of a violent temper tantrum. Gordon's usually hard-boiled TV detective façade simmered away to reveal a rotten child underneath. He was not sane in the least. None of them seemed to be sane. Even the guard at the door to the interrogation room glared at him with a second-hand hatred. What had Jeremiah ever done to him? Personally, it bugged him to see so many potentially insane people in charge.

Then there was the matter of Bruce. Jeremiah realized that things hadn't gone to plan. Instead of rendering his focus completely and undividedly onto Jeremiah, Bruce turned away. That thought bothered him more than anything. Things always seemed to run a certain way, all the people he knew acted as he had planned. Bruce was entirely different. The rage, the thing Jeremiah saw deep within him, was suppressed with an indominable willpower.

Jeremiah was almost proud of Bruce. He was so strong and yet so fragile. He was like a vase that bounced before it came down for a second time and shattered. He felt like he had chipped the young man. In one way, he was delighted for his friend's resolve. In another, there was a bubbling loathing towards him. He had blundered through his plan, destroying a week's worth of work. If it were anyone else, he would have killed him, but where would that leave Jeremiah? No friend, no muse, no meaning, no purpose: he couldn't live like that. He would have to accept that sometimes, Bruce was going to rip apart his plans. Not this one, this one would work.

There was a sound as the door to the interrogation room opened. Jeremiah swiveled his head as the door opened and in stepped men dressed in military uniforms and carrying large guns. Finally, he at least gotten someone's attention.

"Get up."

Jeremiah almost smiled. They were all so predictable.

* * *

Bruce's head pounded furiously. He found himself cracking open his eyes to see the city landscape peeling away outside of a window. He realized quickly that he was in a vehicle. He could tell it was a police car from the wired fencing that separated the backseats from the front. His mind churned as he recalled his last moments of consciousness. He knew he had been knocked out after the lights went out during Jeremiah's interrogation. That only led to more questions than answers. Perhaps he was under police escort now. The military would have surely taken care of whatever threat had entered the room and attempted to abduct him. They must be trying to get him as far away as possible.

"Oh, good, you're awake," the monotone voice sent a shock through Bruce's body.

He whipped his attention to the driver. To his horror, the worse case scenario came to life. He saw Jeremiah sitting in the driver's seat of the police vehicle. He went to move, but he noticed that his hands were bound by handcuffs behind his back. Bruce was still as his mind raced through a half-cognizant state.

Jeremiah glanced into the rearview mirror, "I thought we could have a bit of time to ourselves, so I asked the ninja people that I make the getaway. I feel like we've become a bit distant after the events of the past couple of hours. We really needed to have a chat, and not one that's dictated around 'where are the bombs' and trite business like that. So, how has your day been?"

Bruce remained silent.

Jeremiah didn't shift under the several seconds of silence and instead changed the subject, "Well, mine's been rather interesting. Gordon made sure it was interesting. The jaw hurts a little bit."

Silence. Jeremiah rolled his head from side to side, keeping his eyes on the road. He seemed to cock his head backwards as if listening for the slightest sound. Almost a minute of silence passed. Bruce simmered in anger. Jeremiah scratched the side of his face. Finally, Jeremiah spoke again.

"You know, a thought just occurred to me," he spoke as if it were the most benign of conversations. "Every time I've been in a car it's either been you or Gordon or someone else driving me around. I've been a passenger, and I guess you could say that about my life. I've been a passenger in my own life, but I guess I'm in the driver's seat now."

There was a bit of a gasp that escape Bruce's lips as the police car suddenly crossed over two lanes to make an exiting turn off of the interstate. Bruce wasn't wearing a seat belt and slammed into the car door side. During the commotion, he attempted to pull at the door handle. It gave way with no release: locked, of course.

"Sorry, I've never driven before," Jeremiah waved to the back seat apologetically. "I've studied the concept multiple times, but I've never actually done it. I guess it's kind of like my plan: I've thought about it countless times, but actually doing it is a completely different monster." He turned again, a little too hard, Bruce tumbled into the side again. "And a hand touchier than I expected. It's interesting how these parallels align. Put your seatbelt on, Bruce. It's the law. I don't need a ticket."

Bruce blinked at the completely spontaneous, innocuous fixation. Was he joking? Now, after everything, and he was trying to joke with him. Bruce had to bite back an impulsive response. There was a burning anger still in him, but Bruce knew he couldn't act on it. As much as his mind played out how he could possibly retaliate, he knew that, without anything to pick the handcuffs or escape the car, any form of resistance would just encourage Jeremiah. Despite that, he knew he could not allow silence into the conversation. It would give Jeremiah time to think.

"Come on, Bruce," Jeremiah sighed. "I don't like monologuing."

Bruce also reasoned that Jeremiah would act like Jerome. If Bruce didn't interact or bored him, Jeremiah might run over a civilian to get his attention. So, he needed to engage him, just not in any way that would give him satisfaction. He couldn't get angry. He couldn't fuel Jeremiah's need for a reaction.

"Jeremiah," Bruce tried to temper the anger in his voice and keep it steady. "If there is any part of you that is still sane, stop all of this and turn yourself in."

Jeremiah's eyes rolled in the rearview mirror, "Bruce, you disappoint me. I already assured you: I am completely sane."

"You certainly don't act it," Bruce retorted.

"Really," Jeremiah scoffed. "I believe I've been the model of sanity. Everything is planned, everything has a purpose, I am undeterred by setbacks, I do not cower, I do not have irrational fear, and I do not take joy in my actions. I am simply a man with a plan who executes it with precision."

"Underplaying your actions and not feeling empathy is not sanity," Bruce argued. "It's sociopathic: a form of insanity."

"So, says you and everyone else," Jeremiah chided. "We both know the standards of society are fundamentally insane."

"Then what standard do you hold yourself to?"

"My own," Jeremiah didn't skip a beat.

"Of course," Bruce scoffed.

"Why not, if I am the only sane man in this damn city, why not hold myself to my own standard?"

"It's circular logic, you have no basis. It's logically unsound," Bruce felt a need to counter Jeremiah logically. The engineer had always prioritized his reasoning skills and logic; perhaps he could expose the flaws in the man's thinking.

"Well, the same could be said of your idea of using society as a moderator." He cocked his head to the side. "Tell me this, Bruce. Do you think you are sane?"

Bruce forced himself not to hesitate as he answered, "Yes."

"See, I have plausible reason to doubt your claim, Bruce." Jeremiah seemed amused. "You see, you seem to have acted in a less than sane manner. You were traumatized as a child, which led you down a path of significant decline in your mental state. You have run headfirst into danger without regard to yourself. You're very violent, if I do say, you threaten violence all the time—you would probably strangle me right now if we didn't have this nice little strip of metal in the way. You also seem to enjoy it quite a bit. I remember last night you were admitting as much yourself. If you see yourself as sane, then I have a lot of questions to your feelings towards empathy. You also have a tendency for self-destructive behavior, as seen in the aforementioned violent-heroic streak. It doesn't translate only to violence but binge drinking. Quite deviant behavior, wouldn't you agree?"

"Don't act like you know me," Bruce shook his head. "As much as you revel in your research, Jeremiah, it will only tell you so much."

"It gives me enough, besides, you underestimate how much I pay attention," there was a calculated pause. "In either case, according to you, and by extension society, we are either both insane, or sane. You can't have both."

Bruce couldn't help but have another ping of guilt run through him. The question hit closer to home than Bruce wished to realize. He knew that there were nuggets of truth in Jeremiah's statement—a good foundation to a lie as Selina had once told him. His violent tendencies were not the actions of a sane person. Furthermore, he had once felt a strange kinship to Jeremiah, who obviously was not in his right mind, even, admittedly, before he was doused with the gas. He had allowed his own thoughts and feelings excuse Jeremiah's odd behavior—even to the point of rationalizing some of his actions as something that he would do in Jeremiah's place. Perhaps they weren't that different. Bruce dismissed the thought. Internalizing anything Jeremiah spewed would only allow a foothold in the young man's mind. He couldn't allow that. But, then again, Jeremiah seemed to pride on his perceived sanity. Trying to say that he was sane would confirm Jeremiah's own bias that he must be as well.

He decided to do something unexpected, "Fine, we're both insane then."

Jeremiah sighed and looked at Bruce like he was a child, "Alright then, by society's standards, we're both insane. Though, I don't consider myself under those trivial rules. Such standards are meaningless, you must use your own compass. Only you can accurately see that when you accept who you truly are. It's confusing to explain, but, if only you thought clearly, you would understand. I think you might require a bit more stimulus in order to reach that enlightenment. That trap my brother set allowed me to see through the fog of my cluttered mind."

"I thought it was like 'being sprayed with water'." Bruce interjected.

Jeremiah stuttered, finally, "Yes. No effect, there was nothing tha—"

"It either did, or it didn't, you can't have both," Bruce almost felt a bit of a victory as he twisted Jeremiah's words back in on him. "So, did it change you, or was there no effect?"

Jeremiah mulled over the answer, "Why does it matter?"

"One answer will make me pity you less when they ship you off to Arkham."

A sudden, sharp laugh pierced the air. Jeremiah gripped his mouth, clamping down to suppress the sound. The police car swerved as Jeremiah tried to remain in control. Jeremiah's eyes flicked to the mirror, examining Bruce. There was a spark of anger, as if Bruce was the cause of the sudden outburst. Then he looked away, perhaps with a glimmer of shame, like he didn't want Bruce to see this side of him—no, it must have been just wishful thinking on Bruce's part. Finally, Jeremiah managed to rein in his maniacal cackle and return to the conversation.

"Really, that's a strange thought to have: pity based off how a chemical compound affected me?" Jeremiah, out of breath and regaining his composure, seemed miffed as he asked, "If it were to have changed me, how do you think it has affected me?"

Bruce paused for a moment. He realized he was getting an in depth look into Jeremiah's psyche—or, at least, how he perceived himself. Perhaps Bruce could still reach whatever part of him had at least some semblance of logic.

"You used to be a good person: someone who wanted to help Gotham. You had vision; you wanted to make the world a better place. You wanted to make up for your brother's mistakes." Bruce realized again how much he felt like he had lost someone. "You were quiet, understanding, and brilliant."

Jeremiah seemed to swallow a laugh and retorted, "You really want that pathetic persona back: the weak, cowardly Jeremiah?" He snapped quickly.

Bruce almost replied with at "yes," but was taken aback by how Jeremiah perceived his past self. Had this truly been a long con? "So, you're saying the other Jeremiah was an act?"

"In a way, an act so convincing that I fooled even myself." Jeremiah shook his head. "My brother had one of those personas too. You could see it on the tapes when Gordon was interrogating him. The tears he cried after he knew he'd hacked open our mother's skull: the mark of a true thespian. Sometimes I just wondered if they were tears of joy. It was only when the façade dropped that you saw who he really was. He had convinced himself that he was put-upon and beaten, but then he realized his true evil nature." He put a hand to his heart. "This is me. We all wear personas, masks to hide those true selves. Even you, dear Bruce, have a mask; you hide who you are, even if it is unintentional. I would really like to meet the real Bruce sometime." Jeremiah thought for a moment and then replied slowly, "In all honesty, my brother's concoction did serve as a conduit for my realization. I had a vision of sorts, a violent tango with my psyche. I saw who I was supposed to be—who I truly was—and I want the same for you."

A vision? Bruce's mind flashed back just a few months prior when he was on the edge of death. A vision of the future. A man dressed in black, shrouded in darkness, someone to be feared. Bruce knew that was his future even if it was a near-death drug induced hallucination. In a way, it was beyond comprehension how he knew that to be true. He just did. He never expected that something similar would have been experienced by Jeremiah.

"You've seen it too," Jeremiah suddenly allowed a glimmer of excitement into his expression. "Don't try and hide it, Bruce. I see that perceptive look in your eye. You know what I'm talking about. You know who you are, and yet, you have not fully embraced it. I wish you would. Don't think that this is some sort of scheme or wishful thinking on my part because someone else has seen it too. He's a prophet of sorts—I believe I alluded to him back at the station. I know it might be strange to believe in such a thing as a prophet, but it's true. I want to be the one who spearheads our destinies."

Ra's had gotten to him, that much was clear, but whatever Jeremiah believed was truly a delusion. He was under the influence of yet another person. Bruce huffed, always the pawn, his pride wouldn't allow him to see it—or maybe he just didn't care. Another several seconds of silence followed as Bruce looked around slowly for a way to escape. Jeremiah broke the silence.

"Despite being antagonistic for the sake of our meeting earlier, I do want to know what has become of the girlfriend." Bruce stiffened, but didn't meet his eye. "I'm sorry about the girlfriend. I meant to kill her, but, modern medicine after all. It's a real lifesaver. Does she still have feeling in her toes? I've studied enough anatomy to tell you that I probably hit her spine." He talked so casually about it, like he was talking about the weather. "I mean, Bruce, you could do so much better. She was dumb, a pain, and generally whiny. The bitch was practically begging to be shot. I helped you dodge a bullet, metaphorically of course."

By some miracle (or perhaps handcuffs and a metal grate), Bruce kept himself from throwing himself at Jeremiah. The fury he felt towards the engineer was building with each word. There it was again: a knowing malice in Jeremiah's words. He was trying to coax the anger out of him. Bruce knew he could not break into a fit of rage. He wouldn't encourage Jeremiah's ego. He craved reaction.

Jeremiah seemed to notice the internal struggle and added flagrantly, "You're not going to continue anything with her, right? It would be hard to keep the passions running what with paralysis and all." He made a frivolous expression. "I mean, she has no feeling below the waist. Wedding night is going to be a bore."

"Is this a sick joke to you?" Bruce bellowed furiously. Jeremiah was finally starting to get to him.

Jeremiah looked at him strangely, "A joke?" His lip thinned out. "I wasn't trying but, yes," the ghost of a smile appeared. "Maybe there was a bit of a joke in it."

Bruce flashed back to the night at the circus, how Jeremiah had smashed a ball into the vendor's face. Jeremiah had a goal in mind and he didn't care who got hurt in the process. He found any sort of torment amusing in his own way, just like—

Bruce thought for a moment. Jeremiah claimed to be observant, but Bruce was as well. He thought back to his conversations with Jeremiah. Wittingly or not, Jeremiah had revealed many of his insecurities under the guise of friendship. Whether or not he still had these insecurities was unknown, but he had to try. Why not start with Jeremiah's biggest fears? Bruce found his angle.

"Oh," Bruce sighed dramatically. "How disappointing."

Jeremiah's eyes flickered in the mirror. "What?"

Bruce felt gratification. He was just the same; he couldn't hide his fixation on Bruce's train of thought. He wanted to know how Bruce felt about everything, "I mean. Come on."

"What?" Jeremiah seemed annoyed. "You have words, Bruce, use them."

"Really, it's not obvious?" Bruce asked. "Even you can see the similarities."

"Similarities?" Jeremiah questioned; he realized to what Bruce was referring. "Bruce, I merely used the template of that psychopath. That is all."

Bruce shook his head, "No, it's there. It's kind of sad too, I was hoping for something new. But, the whole thing is just blatant plagiarism."

"No, no, not plagiarism. I merely am de—"

"You know, he escaped in a police car too one time."

Jeremiah's tone changed as there was something like irritation in it, "Now that's not fair. I use what is available to me."

"What was it you said once?" Bruce ignored him as he kept talking. "You told me that Jerome believed that both of you thought the same, your 'brains were wired the same down to the last neuron.' In a way that's true, but, still, you can't live up to him," He sighed as Jeremiah stiffened. "I almost miss him. He had flair, at least. There's just no stage presence from the sane man. It's boring, honestly."

Jeremiah rolled his eyes as he became agitated at Bruce's attacks, "Acting in such a childish manner isn't going to get you anywhere, Brucy," Jeremiah stuttered for a moment and a flicker of panic crossed his ever-blank expression as he quickly corrected. "Bruce."

"I see." Bruce sat back into the seat. "You're  _just_  like Jerome."

The breaks screeched on and Bruce slammed into the wiring of the police car. Several cars honked as they avoided the police car. There was the sound of fabric rubbing up against the steering wheel, and Bruce noticed Jeremiah's hands tightly clenching the wheel. His eyes had disappeared from the rearview mirror. Finally, he unclenched his hands and drummed his fingers on the wheel.

"Bruce," Jeremiah chided coldly; he seemed to be holding back. "I'm  _deeply_  wounded that you would come to that conclusion. It's so obvious I'm much different from th—"

"You have the same followers, same fixations, same background, same escape plan, same motivation, same goals, sa—"

"Shut it!" Jeremiah broke his character and unbridled rage crossed his expression for a split moment.

Bruce didn't let up, "Stop kidding yourself, Jeremiah. No one likes a copycat, especially an underwhelming one, and one that fails right off the bat."

"Fail? Bruce, we haven't even reached the climax. What you perceive as failure is simply a stepping stone to greater cause," Jeremiah sighed.

"Then, please explain how you masterminded this from the start, how everything fell into place," Bruce said. "Face it Jeremiah, you're a failure. You needed someone else to scoop up the pieces of your plan."

"Shut up," Jeremiah growled. "You're just saying things to annoy me. I'm deeply disappointed that you would use such a childish argument. I thought my friend would be better than that."

Bruce knew that he was slowly peeling back Jeremiah's cold defenses, but he wasn't doing it fast enough. He needed Jeremiah to take action, or at least influence his actions later. He went after the one thing Jeremiah seemed to prize more than anything.

"You really think we're friends?" Bruce scoffed.

Jeremiah grunted something like, "Of course."

"Oh no," Bruce played it up a little. "You thought for a moment, that we could be friends? Jeremiah, as smart as you think you are, you just can't tell when someone's playing you for attention." Bruce knew he'd have to go against everything Jeremiah held dear in order to tell the convincing lie. "What, you think that a billionaire would just go up and befriend the man who's related to a psychopath?"

"Bruce, if you're trying to hurt me, you're doing a bad job," there was a tinge of emotion in his voice.

"You just don't want to face the fact that I just needed your tech," Bruce shook his head. "Think about it. The first, non-Jerome topic I brought up was your work. I wined and dined you so that I could get exclusive access to your tech. It's typical for financial gain. I couldn't have the competition scooping you up."

"You know that's not true," Jeremiah growled. "You are my friend. You said so yourself. We have a connection, a destiny."

"Did Ra's tell you this destiny?" Bruce shook his head. "So smart, and so gullible."

Jeremiah was silent.

Bruce continued, "It wouldn't matter anyway though. The end result will be the same. You will be forgotten." He saw Jeremiah's head incline, so he continued along that line. "They'll lock you away in Arkham, maybe even get you on death row. Either way, you'll be in a cell far away from me. You'll never cross my mind again. I'll forget you."

There was a clanging sound. The muzzle of a handgun was pressed against the fencing. As he spun in his seat, Jeremiah's burning gaze met Bruce's. The young man clenched his jaw, determined not to show any weakness. Jeremiah's cold expression had completely broken into a furious scowl. They ended up glaring at each other for several seconds. Neither of them wanted to flinch under the other's gaze. Even the honking and whiz of traffic didn't tear them away. Finally, Jeremiah pulled the gun back.

"Jeepers Bruce," Jeremiah gave him a playful look. "You keep saying things like that, and someone's going to get  _shot_." The expression faded to the emotionless features Bruce was now used to seeing on Jeremiah; there was a long pause of intensity before he spoke again. "Sometimes I wonder why I even try," Jeremiah sighed then turn forward again and continued driving. "Friendship needs to be give-and-take, I don't see much giving from you, Bruce." Jeremiah shrugged, "I can't blame you; I've stressed you over the past couple of hours. When I'm done, you'll thank me for what I've made you into."

Delusional: he was completely delusional. Bruce didn't know whether to feel anger or pity. Jeremiah was a confusing conundrum of contradictions. He doubted even Jeremiah knew what he really wanted. Bruce didn't have much more time to think about it as the car came to a stop, the door opened, and a bag was thrown over his head.

* * *

Jeremiah sighed as he gazed out the glass window upon the city below him. It was a better view than from Wayne enterprises, but he still saw the same problems from before. The twisted roads, the broken structures, abandoned buildings, it was chaos. Further proof of the chaos was the sirens that played and the flaming bridge in the distance. If what the al Ghul man was telling him was true, it would have to become more chaotic before it could be completely rebuilt. Well, he was dead now—you'd think a man who could see the future could have predicted that—so what did he know.

Jeremiah suddenly sucked in some air as a ping of pain rattled in his brain. The bullet wound didn't hurt as much as he had imagined, but, perhaps, that was just the adrenaline still running through his veins. He quickly glanced back up the staircase to make sure that he wasn't followed. Everyone was probably still in awe of the bridge exploding and didn't have time to check after the one person who slipped away. He continued down, taking occasional glances out the glass exterior to watch his handywork. In that moment, Jeremiah felt invincible. Finally, finally, everything was going his way.

Now what?

Jeremiah blinked at the notion and paused a little. Oh, yes, he'd finally achieved his plan. Everything had gone perfectly. Yet, he had no further intentions. He'd found himself at the end of his plot. Jeremiah was deathly still for a moment. He hadn't planned this far—it wasn't like he had been afforded the time. Now, Gotham was in ruin, the world in his image was a reality. Now what? He didn't feel exceptionally safe; it didn't help him feel at home in the world. Ecco was nowhere to be found—where did she go again?—and his bunker was blown to smithereens. He would also be killed on sight by practically anyone. If he was being honest, it was enough stress to drive a man mad. There was only one thing that comforted him.

Bruce was looking for him.

Despite his previous, unfounded statement that he would forget Jeremiah, the engineer knew that Bruce had a connection to him. It was one forged through the acts that he had committed against him and Gotham. Bruce couldn't ignore him now and was most certainly looking for him. It was a thought that almost made him giddy. It was like playing hide and seek. Jeremiah needed to hide, and Bruce wouldn't stop until he found him. There was an inherent, anxious excitement that came with playing a game like that. It reminded him of his childhood; his brother and some of the other circus kids playing hide and seek. He found it funny that he was once again being hunted by a "brother" of his. Well, at least he had experience. Avoiding Bruce wouldn't be a problem at all.

It was the chase he was worried about. What if Bruce got bored? What if someone else decided to become the newest, biggest threat in Gotham and Jeremiah was shoved to the side—made minor character in his own production? Bruce was a roving spirit of justice; he took on threats as they came at him. Jeremiah couldn't assure that he would always be the center of Bruce's world. He couldn't guarantee their relationship forever.

The wonderings led to one conclusion: he needed to keep Bruce's attention, permanently. He wasn't sure how yet, but he knew that it needed to happen. He needed to establish himself in Bruce's life, bind them together as brothers forever. He needed to do something unforgettable, something that would sear into his mind forever.

He couldn't stand the thought of Bruce turning away again. He couldn't be forgotten.

Jeremiah's vision went fuzzy. For a moment, he thought it might have been vertigo, but then he remembered the wound in his arm. It still didn't hurt as much as he thought being shot would. Never the matter, he just had to make sure he didn't bleed to death, that would ruin any plans he envisioned—the true tragedy being how anticlimactic it would be for Bruce to find him dead. He sighed. He had better get to a doctor and figure out how to keep a gun on them while they were removing the bullet. He paused for a moment on the staircase and looked out over the cityscape one last time.

It was perfect.

Jeremiah smiled.

* * *

Bruce was sitting on the edge of the GCPD building. It had been hours since the bridges blew. The smoke was still drifting in the horizon and sirens still blared in the distance. Chaos was starting to infiltrate the city, as was evidenced by the distant sound of gunfire. People were going to die, everything was going to change, and the only remanence of hope and light was the spotlight that was currently pointing into the sky. Gordon had left a few minutes ago to address the growing crisis in the streets. Bruce had immediately offered to help, but Gordon shook his head.

"It's been a long day for all of us, there's going to be chaos," Gordon shook his head. "Go get some rest, you can help in the morning."

Bruce was partly glad that Gordon allowed him time to think things over. He needed a moment to let his thoughts straighten out.

Hatred boiled up in him as he remembered everything Jeremiah had done. He almost couldn't believe that forty-eight hours ago he had cared about the man. Now there was a visceral hatred that came up at the mention of his name. As much as he had tried, Bruce hadn't found his way over to Jeremiah during the fight with Ra's. It hadn't surprised him when Jeremiah, his proposed friend, shoved Bruce in front of him as a bullet shield. After that, he seemed to purposefully avoid Bruce.

Now there was nothing between them and nothing stopping him from finding Jeremiah. Selina and Alfred were escaping out of the city. Bruce had no one around and nothing to lose. A man with nothing to lose was a very dangerous person. Jeremiah was the same. His home was in smithereens, and Bruce doubted that he cared for anything else. The notion that they were in a cock fight crossed his mind. Both of them were inexplicably tied to each other in a closed off environment and the only way out was for one of them to be dead. Dead: Bruce had sworn off killing; he knew that he couldn't bear to take a life.

But, could he really let Jeremiah live after everything he had done?

A part of him still saw the sane, good, old side of him, he wanted to believe that it was there—even if it was just an act. The whole thing might have been out of even Jeremiah's control. Another part simply wanted to allow him to live on principle. He was a human being, wasn't that enough? A third part didn't want to kill him for fear of what that would make him; he would just be a murderer, again. The final vengeful, overpowering part wanted Jeremiah to suffer for everything he had done to his friends and the city.

His body suddenly felt heavy as sleepiness worked its way through him. He hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. Gordon's offer for rest stood as a haven of safety and calm. Bruce knew he couldn't accept. No, he couldn't rest—he wouldn't rest—until Jeremiah was dealt with; he couldn't wait until he unleashed whatever new hell on what remained of Gotham. Jeremiah was his responsibility. He needed to take him in. Bruce shrugged off the ache in his body and ignored the tiredness that started to sink into his bones. He stood up and inadvertently stood in front of the beam of light, casting a shadow on the clouds.

No time for rest: there was work to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for comments and support!
> 
> The next one should be out next month. I'm kind of waiting for season 5 to hit Netflix (in the States) so I can review everything.


	15. Lovers' Quarrel

Chaos, what could only be described as utter chaos ruled the streets. At first, there were a couple of hours of silence. It was as if no one could believe it. A fire started on 8th, gunfire broke out in the Narrows, and looting broke out in Market Street. When the police response was minimal and scattered, the message was sent: Gotham belonged to the criminals and lunatics. Fires, gunshots, and sirens could be heard deep into the night.

Then it just stopped. The city had exploded, and now there was the ringing, deaf silence that followed. It was strange for anyone who had lived in the city. Even at its quietest, there was some car engine, the sound of a next-door TV, or animal making some commotion. Now it was deathly silent, like no one even existed. Then, the silence was broken by a gunshot or a scream only to be followed by more hush.

Bruce couldn't stand the quiet. It gave him too much time to think. The violent deaths, the bridges blowing, the government blockade, there was nothing he could do. Despite allowing Bruce to work with the GCPD, Gordon kept a tight leash on him. He explained that Bruce had been a target, and there was no telling who would attempt to ransom him if he got caught.

"I know you want to help," Jim had told him. "But you're a target right now. Stick to the green zone. The gangs are still establishing territory. Wait until things settle down, then I can really use your help."

Part of him wanted to disregard Gordon's command, but he knew that it came from a place of concern. He just wished there was more for him to do. The jobs he took were minimal: helping children find their parents, handing out food, repurposing Wayne Tech to help everyone. He couldn't stand it. Even when he did go on excursions into the night, he never went past the green zone for information. The time and lack of action just allowed him time to ponder what he could have done differently. The looks in the eyes of the people who were suffering were damning. It was all his fault. He couldn't tear himself away from his biggest regret.

Selina hadn't been fortunate enough to escape in time. Everything had been shut down immediately. A lot of people who thought they were going to get out were now trapped on the island. The attention she was given was minimum, which was understandable since she was one of the only stable patients. There were others that needed more immediate medical assistance, but still, Bruce had the selfish desire for them to focus solely on her. The irrational thought came from his need to help, but he knew they neither had the supplies nor the equipment to completely repair her spine. There would be no way to help her until they were reconnected with the mainland.

Bruce sat by Selina's bed as the moonlight streamed through the window. Alfred had been dismissed for some much-needed rest—he was often on request for help more times than Bruce. Bruce stroked Selina's hand. He hoped that she would wake soon. He knew that she needed rest, but he wanted to talk to her. It had been nearly a week since she had been shot. She still hadn't been entirely conscious yet. She drifted in and out and didn't speak when she was conscious. He just needed to hear her voice again. It was one of the only things that he kept hoping for in whatever this new Gotham was turning into.

He found himself drifting and slumped over in his chair. He closed his eyes for a moment and let his guard slip. Suddenly, he heard movement beside him. Blinking a bit, he slowly started to sit up before he realized where the change was coming from. His eyes snapped open as he saw Selina begin to move. He was immediately at her side as her eyes began to glance around the room.

"Hey," Bruce whispered encouragingly. "Selina, how are you doing?"

"Bruce?" Selina looked at him with worried eyes. "What happened?"

Bruce took a breath. He went on to explain everything that had happened: the shot, the bombs, No-Man's-Land, Jeremiah—all of it. He felt her eyes bore into him as he explained the situation. When he finished, she looked down at her toes. She made a face as if straining; Bruce solemnly realized that she was trying in vain to flex her toes. When she finally relaxed, she glanced across the room emotionlessly. Bruce didn't move to speak, almost petrified by what she would say. They sat there for what seemed like a grave eternity. Finally, her eyes flickered to life as she seemed to process something.

"Why'd you let it happen?" Selina muttered.

"What?" Bruce asked as a shock ran through his chest.

"Why'd you let him do it?" Selina turned to him; her piercing eyes searched his. "Why'd you let your guard down?"

A lump came up in his throat, "Selina, I'm sorry. I tried."

"Try? Bruce, you didn't even try! Look at me!" Selina yelled. "You hesitated, Bruce! I saw it! I thought you'd save me before anything happened, but you didn't do anything. The worst part is that he's still alive, out there somewhere hurting someone else. If Ivy or Bridgette did this to you, I wouldn't hesitate to rip their throats out! You've let him go and roam the city. He's not dead, and that's my problem."

"You know I can't do that," He had explained his situation with Ra's, she knew what happened when he killed him—how destroyed he was.

"What? For your stupid code or for yourself? Or do you just not want to admit that you care for that  _freak_."

Bruce stretched his lip, "He's my responsibility. I wi—"

"If he's your responsibility, then kill him!" Bruce felt a steady frown cross his face. "Your inaction let Jerome terrorize the city; he was your responsibility too. When you didn't do anything to stop him for good, he destroyed Jeremiah and created a monster. Now Jeremiah's your responsibility, and you've let him destroy Gotham. You're really bad at taking care of your responsibilities."

"I can't kill him!" Bruce pleaded with her.

"You  _won't_!" Selina retorted. "If you were even close to being the protector that you think you are, then you would have already killed him. Jim would have killed him there, Harvey would have, Alfred too. Do you think that your father would have stood paralyzed if you had been shot? You don't have the courage to do what needs to be done to save those who you care about." She looked down again as tears filled her eyes. "You're not a hero; you're a coward. The only difference is that your cowardice causes everyone else to suffer."

Bruce snapped his eyes open. He felt sweat dripping down his forehead. The constant beep of the heart monitor played on the machine. He glanced over at Selina. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, and her eyes were shut. Bruce breathlessly sat back in the chair.

A dream, it had been a dream.

A wash of relief fell over him but was quickly replaced with a sting of intense guilt. The things that she had said, even in his dream, felt like something the real Selina would say. The tense silence, waiting to see if she blamed him for her possible lifetime of paralysis, was killing him. She hadn't spoken to him in so long that his psyche had filled that gap—even if it was her tearing into him. She would never forgive him for it. She'd hate him for what had happened. He would lose another friend.

Jeremiah. Bruce almost spat as he thought of the name. He'd tried to shove the thought aside, forget that he was there because of the more significant problems plaguing the city, but he kept coming up on everyone's lips. Since the first night, he hadn't gotten a chance to search for him. His days were taken up with his concern for Selina and other daily tasks asked of him. The lack of action was eating away at him, especially since it was a mistake that he wasn't allowed to rectify. He hadn't done anything to track him down. That was true partially due to his indecisiveness; he didn't know what he would do to Jeremiah—whether he would bring him in or kill him where he stood.

Bruce shook his head. He couldn't do that no matter how good it felt. He had just come out of his depressive stupor, he couldn't go back. He had barely made his way out. He had sworn an oath to himself that he wouldn't kill. Bruce couldn't break it again or he would be the one who was broken.

However, Selina had always been his voice of reason. Maybe that was why it was her in his dream that had instructed him to kill. Perhaps he knew it was the right thing to do, and he was ignoring it because of his own selfish desire. Ra's had broken him, but he hadn't killed hundreds of people at that time. Wouldn't he be saving more people by ending Jeremiah now? Maybe, if he made the one exception, it would be justified enough to be at ease with his conscience.

The dream wouldn't leave him. He wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He glanced over at Selina. She was still as stone. Her life was ruined because of his useless inaction. Bruce's hand balled into a fist. The one thing he could do for possible recompense was to bring him to justice. What that meant—death or trial—he couldn't decide.

One thing was decided; he wouldn't be useless anymore.

Bruce made sure that he wasn't followed. Since it was already the dead of night, he didn't have to worry about someone missing him from the green zone. The darkness and cloudy night hid him well with his long black overcoat camouflaging him into the dark urban environment. He stuck to the shadows and limited his visibility as much as possible. He was confident in taking down any physical threat, but he didn't put it past someone to simply shoot him from a distance. He stopped at the slightest sound to keep from being spotted. Occasionally, someone would skulk along the street, and he would wait until they passed. While he made the journey through the broken city, his thoughts didn't leave him.

He thought about the fact that he could come face-to-face with Jeremiah for the first time since the bridges blew. He considered how he would react. Despite how much he hated Jeremiah, he knew he couldn't wield that anger openly. To do so, would flash a weakness, something Jeremiah could use against him. He couldn't lose his cool around him. In some way, Bruce found himself unable to describe the emotion he felt towards Jeremiah. It was beyond hatred; he felt nothing. It was as if there was a certain point until it simply capped off, and there was no more to be explored. It was the bitter, cold hatred that had built up over the last week of stewing, always present in his bones.

Finally, he noticed a light and cautiously approached it. He saw a group down an alleyway huddled around a trashcan fire. Bruce crept closer for a better look. From their clothing, he identified them as a part of the Street Demonz gang. A better inspection showed that they were unarmed. Bruce thought for a moment. They should know something about Jeremiah. So far, from what he had overheard from Jim, these gang members were currently prowling the streets in small posses looking for territory to claim. If anyone had a chance of even hearing about Jeremiah, these guys were it. Bruce took a breath and stepped out into the middle of the alleyway.

"Where is Jeremiah Valeska?" He boomed.

The group of three looked up from their fire. They looked at him with initial fear; then, they glanced at each other while smiles appeared on their faces.

"Eh, dunno," One of them said as they stepped forward towards him. "Say, kid, you got any food on ya?"

"That jacket looks real nice," One of them, a skinny man with a bushy mustache, observed with a grin. "Can you make a friendly donation to your local biker gang?"

"I'm going to give you one chance to answer me," Bruce growled in a level voice.

Of course, that didn't faze them as bemused looks crossed their faces. The opportunity to mug the "vulnerable" young adult who had wandered into an alleyway was too much fun to simply pass up. They looked at each other for a moment and laughed. Rage boiled up in him. He didn't have time for this. That was when Bruce chose to strike.

Bruce round-housed the nearest one in the chest, sending him sprawling into the wall. The other two, seeing the sudden action, started to advance around the trashcan. Bruce kicked over the trash can, causing the flaming contents to topple onto the skinny man. He let out a holler and sprinted down the alley and out of sight as his pants caught fire.

The one who narrowly escaped the flaming debris cautiously approached Bruce. He reached into a pocket and pulled a switchblade out. Yelling, the man slashed the knife through the air. Avoiding the blade, Bruce retreated backward. Suddenly, his retreat was routed when he backed up into flesh. The one, who had been thrown into the wall, hooked his arms under Bruce's shoulder. The knife-wielder advanced. Bruce deflected the knife with a kick, then with a sidekick sent the former knife-wielder sprawling. Bruce elbowed the man pinning him in the temple. The grip loosened, and the man stumbled back. Bruce finished it off with a kick across the jaw. The ex-knife wielder tumbled to the ground in a daze. The next thing he knew, the sole of a boot was pressing his face into the concrete.

"Where is Jeremiah?" Bruce growled.

"I don't know," The man returned. "Does it look like I would know where anyone is in this hell hole?"

"You work for the Street Demonz; they own the roads. You have to know a general location, a name, one of his cult members, something!"

Bruce pressed his boot down harder. The man squirmed under the pressure and yelled out.

"I heard there's a crazy chick down by the Stacked Deck," The man pleaded. "She's dressed like a jester or somethin'—one of those crazy types. She may know how to find him!"

Stacked Deck, crazed jester, it was more than he had gotten previously.

"Good enough," Bruce said before swiping his boot across the man's face knocking him out cold.

Bruce's frustration boiled up again. Why was it so hard to find Jeremiah? The man was nothing if noticeable as the most reviled man in Gotham. He would think that it would be easy to track Jeremiah down, pinpoint him to some location, at least. Now, his only lead was a possibility at best. It made him so irritated to think that he was blind from the lack of information. Someone had to know where to find him. Every moment he wasted was a potential life lost or an extra second towards some maniacal plot.

"Hey!" Bruce looked up to see the previously flaming man return. He was alone but clearly enraged. He would be able to take down. The attacker approached with a sprint.

The attacker swung at Bruce's head; Bruce ducked and retaliated with an uppercut. The man stumbled backward. Bruce took his chance to advance. He brought his leg up in a sidekick. The man held his arm up against his chest to block—the kick connected with his forearm. There was a  _SNAP_ , and the man let out a cry. He sprawled backward with a grunting moan as he clutched his forearm. The bone was sticking out of the broken arm. The man moaned in pain as he passed between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Bruce stood shocked. He had lost control. He could have killed the man with the force he was using. The voice of Jeremiah flashed into his mind. He talked about molding Bruce making him a different person entirely. In his anger towards Jeremiah, he had used excessive force. Was this what Jeremiah wanted? What was he being molded into?

Bruce didn't allow himself to ponder it too long. He turned away from the group of incapacitated gang members and made his way back onto the street.

* * *

The Stacked Deck seemed like the most likely place to be filled with wild revelry or violent destruction at the first sign of societal collapse. The place had for years catered to the more criminal clientele; there was even a picture of the old crime boss Maroni on the wall. The shelves were stocked with cheap booze, and the electricity had yet to go off due to a generator in the basement. The seedy dive bar would have been overrun with violent revelers ready to drink away the rest of their very short lives. It would have been if not for the "delusional" gun-toting woman who had taken up residence in it mere hours after society had all but collapsed.

Ecco was absolutely beside herself with sadness as she lay flat on the bar. Jeremiah had left her. The glimmer of the gun in the low light, Jeremiah's frown, the gleam of borderline hatred in his eyes—there was no coming back from that. He hated her. She had nowhere to go. Now she was back in a place she had sworn she would never return. It led her back to here, a site full of painful memories.

She wondered why she had gone back there instead of her apartment. Perhaps the answer was too obvious—besides the fact that she was sure that the apartment complex had been razed to the ground. It was where she met him, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

"Hey—hey, Blondee! Over here!"

"Come on. You've been neglecting me all night!"

"Get yourself over here, girly!"

The calls throughout the night were endless. She thought that being a bar attendant would be a good way to pay the bills, a secure job without too much hassle. She couldn't have been more wrong on the hassle part, especially in one of the seediest bars in Gotham. The revealing midriff uniform wasn't helping either.

She slid some beers down the bar to the inebriated patrons. They cheered her on, called her beautiful, and treated her like she was the last woman on earth. She didn't let a scowl or smile cross her expression.

Despite the demeaning circumstances, she was good at keeping a straight face. She allowed for no other persona but a stone-cold "bitch." It wasn't good for tips, but it made her feel dignified at the very least. That was the only shred of dignity she still felt she controlled in her life. She sighed as her usual defenses did little to deter them, but it was no different from any other night.

It was just another ordinary night at her average job.

But then, something strange happened that ordinary night. An anomaly walked in the door.

It was the flash of color that had caught her attention. He was wearing a bright yellow cardigan that stood out painfully on his red undershirt. She couldn't help but stare as he slid his way into the building. The barely-late-teens-something man was recognizably a minor. He looked like a fawn making his way through the rough crowd. His lip was stretched thin as he tried not to show his discomfort around such a gathering. She kept an eye on him while he made his way through the bar. He stood on his toes a bit as he looked up and down the bar. Finally, his gaze settled on her. She looked away and tried to focus on serving the drunk residents of Gotham.

Out of curiosity, she glanced back. His eyes met hers again, and she didn't look at him again. She figured that he wanted a drink, but he made no effort to get her attention. When she looked back, he was gone. That was strange; he had seemed so colorful that it would be hard to lose him. She spent a couple of minutes reattending some drunk patrons before the flash of color caught her eye again. She brought her chin up only to be met face-to-face with the man.

As she turned to him with an eyebrow raised, he leaned against the table casually and pushed his chest out.

"Xander, Xander Wylde," the name seemed unnatural as he said it; it was like it was the first time he was saying it.

She huffed, "Yeah, gonna need to see ID." She didn't really need to see it. If the bar required it, he would have been carded at the door, but no one cared who drank in Gotham. She just thought she would deter any further advances from him.

"Oh, don't worry, I won't be drinking," the man said quickly. "I just need a moment of your time."

"I don't have enough to spare," She knew she needed to cut it off immediately. If he wasn't there for drinks, then she definitely wasn't interested.

He let a small smile cross his face, "Don't worry, I won't take much of your time, and I won't impede your job at this fine establishment."

There was a silence as he looked at her for a response. She simply turned away to busy herself with someone else. Meanwhile, she couldn't shake his stare. When she was done with the customer, she found her gaze follow back over to the colorful man. His eyes quickly scanned her chest, and she felt offended until she realized he was looking at her nametag.

"Harleen," the redhead spoke the words with a hint of disappointment. "That's a rather harsh sounding name; it's so formal. Have you tried going by Harley?"

She blinked, "Never liked it. People in high school always joked about someone 'revving' me up."

"Gotham High, was it?"

"Good guess," She allowed a nod.

"Oh," He looked suddenly amused. "I can do more than guess. Graduated valedictorian. First place champion in city-wide women's marksmanship, another first in the statewide gymnastics, and another in karate and judo—all of this by nineteen—that's quite the record you have there—possibly even Olympic worthy."

As he rattled out her achievements, she finally turned to stare at him with the attention he deserved. It was very unusual for anyone to know something like that. It set off her alarm bells even more that he had sought her out. With the specifics of the information, he only wanted one thing. She should have known better that she couldn't get out.

He continued, "And now, after all the achievements, you work in a seedy bar and spend your nights being accosted by drunkards. You are a very overachieving underachiever." He smiled at the small joke.

"It's worth it," she shrugged as she tried to undermine his knowledge. "It pays the bills."

"Bills like tuition for your Psychology degree?"

She stared at the man with a look of quiet judgment, "Call it an infield study. You can learn more about people drowning their sorrows here than in a sterile environment."

Her stoic, unfazed responses clearly disoriented him. He looked at her like he was expecting a reaction that she was not providing. It was like he was hoping the information would give him the upper hand.

As if to ease the tension, he smiled apologetically, "Sorry, I do my research thoroughly. Though not many appreciate it." He licked his lips before continuing. "See, I need you to do a job."

"Not interested."

"It's not what you're thinking," Xander assured quickly and then leaned forward and whispered. "It's a protection job for me."

"Yeah, not happening. Things got too complicated. I'm not in that game anymore," She tried to end it there and return to her job.

"So it would seem, I heard your last job went south, but," He leaned in so that he drew her attention, "I would be willing to make an offer that could make you reconsider."

She looked him up and down. He didn't seem like the type to need protection, "Why do you need my services?"

"Why does anyone seek out someone with your skills?"

"Usually for less than legal reasons," She answered quickly.

"I can imagine, but I'm not here for—" he paused "—less than legal reasons per se." He quickly rephrased. "I wouldn't ask you to do something illegal." He gave a soft nervous laugh, "If I'm being frank, it's rather rare to find someone with the preferred skills and qualifications and who also hasn't been hired by or previously worked for a major criminal organization."

"Then, they have companies for this that you can hire out," She shrugged, trying to give him an out. "Vets usually take up what you're looking for; there are a lot of people with more experience than I."

"I don't think that would work out," He dismissed it without a second thought. "There will be much more required from the position than protection. I need someone to be my proxy: organize meetings, finances, and oversee products with a critical eye. I need someone intelligent, specialized, and, most importantly, not affiliated with previous organizations. Someone like you."

"Yeah, no," She was used to the conventional flattery from half-drunken patrons. He was no different or any better. Honestly, if he was seeking her out, he wanted a female bodyguard; she didn't feel like being the one to oblige him in that fantasy. It only confirmed her suspicion with his next words.

"I work for some important people," He said hurriedly. "I've worked with some very significant companies: Lexcorp, Gothcorp, Wayne Enterprises. Money is of no object, and I can tell that you need a lot of money."

She didn't like the tone. He talked about money as if it were something he could hold over her, something that gave him control. Despite the confident gleam in his eye, she could tell he was inexperienced in persuasion. Sure, she needed money, but he wasn't proposing it right. He didn't use the right tone, as if he had never blackmailed someone before—which was a rarity in Gotham.

"I don't need money that bad," She dismissed him again. "I don't get involved in things like that anymore."

Xander stalled for a moment and then looked down at the counter. He seemed to be thinking. She was about to say something when his entire demeanor shifted drastically. She could see his try-hard-confident expression disappear into a look of worry. He drummed his fingers on the bar for a moment as if thinking of what he was going to do. The sudden break of character surprised her. She figured Xander would become angry or leave; now, he just looked upset.

"Just my luck," Xander sighed and finally spoke. He pressed his palm into his hair and ruffled it. He averted his gaze as he thought of what to do next, "Fine then, you're a bartender. Will you listen to my woes?"

She sighed exasperatedly. She could have him thrown out and been done with him, but something about his plight seemed genuine despite her lack of interest in being involved in it. Maybe she was just curious about what could possibly compel such a strange man to seek her out and spend so much time researching her. She thought that she should treat it as a bit of a test, a measure to how much she had learned already. If she was doing research like she had told him—which was partially true—why not examine the strange man?

"Fine," She shrugged a little. "Why do you need a bodyguard?"

He seemed a little taken aback by her sudden appeasement. He swallowed a little and bit his lip. Suddenly, he glanced to his left and his right as if checking for potential listeners. He leaned in so that only she could hear.

"It's," he lowered his voice, "it's my brother."

"Your brother?" She asked.

"Yes, he's um," Xander stammered. "I—he can't find me."

"Why not?" She raised an eyebrow.

"It's hard to explain," He shook his head. "But—erm—he, he killed our mother."

A look of confusion and disbelief crossed her face. The young man reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded-up newspaper. The paper was dated a few days prior. She glanced at it skeptically. The paper headline was "Circus Slaying"—something that seemed like the side-plot to a B-movie. She looked at him with disbelief, but he simply kept the same somber expression. Further on in the paper, there was a picture of the murderer.

Her expression softened in a rare pang of emotion, "Oh, you're serious."

"Couldn't imagine anyone finding that funny," Xander shook his head. The murderer and the man in front of her looked almost identical aside from the curl of a smile on the murder's lips.

She looked back over to the young man. The distress was clear on his face as he scanned the article. She shifted a bit before reaching under the counter, "You need a drink."

He stiffened a bit, "Oh, no, I'm n—"

"It's Gotham, no one's going to care," She shrugged it off. "I'm not even old enough, and the boss doesn't mind me sneaking a few. You're business, that's all that matters."

She poured him a drink, something strong and stiff. He eyeballed it for a moment before finally taking a tentative sip. She made a gesture to down it, and he did. His eyes bulged for a moment as he coughed it back up into the shot glass. He quickly tried to hide his expression with his hand as his face flushed with embarrassment. A nearby bar patron slapped him on the back and laughed at his reaction. She found a smile creep across her face as she watched him struggle to keep composure.

Xander's eyes flicked back at her, "You're so much more approachable looking when you smile," He spluttered. "I just wish it wasn't at my expense."

"Just be glad you got a smile," She shrugged.

"Now, you understand my circumstance," Xander shook his head as he regained his composure. "Why I need a bodyguard."

"Yeah, I see why,  _Xander_ ," She said the name with disbelief.

"It  _is_  Xander," he said quickly, almost as if he was anticipating her question.

"You suck at lying," She shook her head with a small smile. "Besides, Xander Valeska just doesn't sound right." She tapped the paper where it listed the perpetrator's name. "I'm smart enough to know that brothers typically share last names."

He swallowed; his eyes fell to the bar. He chewed the inside of his mouth as if trying to come up with an explanation.

Suddenly, a loud booming came from one side of the bar. They both looked over to see a jukebox playing loudly in the corner. It had an out of order sign on it, but there was a very guilty-looking, kneeling patron.

"Unplug that now!" She called to the patron, who swiftly did. "It's broken, read the sign, dumbass!" She turned back to face a rather shocked Xander at her sudden annoyed yell. She sought to explain. "It's busted, someone slammed into it during a fight. It only plays one song really loud, _Bad Medicine_. I'll shoot myself if I hear it again."

Xander perked up suddenly. "I could help with that."

"What?" She asked as he quickly left the bar.

"I can fix it for you," He gave little other explanation as he walked right over to the jukebox. "It should be simple."

"Really?" She questioned. "There's been like two mechanics who've looked at it."

Ignoring her, he stepped over to the jukebox and knelt down in front of it. Without hesitation, he searched for the screws that loosened the front. He called back without taking his eyes off it, "Do you have a tool kit? A Philips head screwdriver and a few other basic tools should do. Maybe some electrical wire if you have some spare."

"Yeah, we've got something like that," She said with a hint of confusion. "I'll get it."

Xander worked in silence. She glanced over at him occasionally as he tinkered. His focus absolutely was consumed by his work. Sometimes, some bumbling drunk would bump into him, but he didn't seem to notice even when they stepped on the back of his shoe. She carefully observed him. The confusing mechanical inner workings of the jukebox didn't seem to faze him as he got to work. He didn't seem to make flaws or hesitate. The focused brow and keen look in his eyes showed remarkable intellect. It was the kind of look you saw when someone was utterly at home with what they were doing. She couldn't help but feel he had some genuine genius behind him. It was honestly mesmerizing to watch.

In just a little under half an hour, he had fixed the jukebox. He plugged it in, and another song played at an appropriate volume. Some patrons applauded him before going back to their drinks. For the brief moment of recognition, Xander smiled a bit. She smirked a little and applauded along with them.

"Good job, Xander," She congratulated.

"It's Jeremiah," he said as he stood and turned to her.

"Huh?" She was pulled from her trance.

"That's my name—my birth name anyway," he nodded. "I haven't told anyone else in a long time. I haven't used it in an even longer time." He smiled a little as he returned to the bar. "I guess I feel like I can trust you."

"I see," She felt a sudden warmth. "Well, don't stop there. The twist name reveal is a real cliffhanger. It would be a shame to stop there."

Jeremiah went on to spill about his entire life. He went on about the horrid neglectful nature of his alcoholic mother, the indifference of the circus people, and his demented, wicked twin brother. Jerome had especially tormented him; Jeremiah retold some of his encounters with chilling detail—the bed burning, the birthday knife at his throat, the slaughtered cats. She found herself looking down at the picture and wondering how so much evil could be in one man. She nodded occasionally but didn't interject. The only distraction she allowed was the occasional order, which she would hand out without taking her eyes off of Jeremiah.

She couldn't help but feel her heart go out to him. He seemed like such a timid soul. The faux-confidence that had been off-putting before now revealed a generally nervous person. He noticeably had experienced some psychological trauma from his abuse; there were short ticks about him and swift changes in attitude. Part of her wanted to pick him apart and analyze him, but her more human part sought out to comfort him. Aside from the occasional drink that she slid him over the conversation—which he took with less surprise from the first time—she would offer him some sympathetic actions such as a small smile or a sympathetic touch. This was much more than she would allocate to anyone in the bar.

When he finished, Jeremiah got quiet. There just didn't seem for much more to be said. She looked him over again. For a man of so many bright colors, he certainly didn't have a positive or bright outlook on life. His years were marked by psychological torment and ostracism. He hadn't remarked so much on his school years, but it was evident that he wasn't popular. The confession seemed the ease him. He looked like he had just had a burden lifted from his shoulders, and relief crossed his expression along with a drunken blush. He obviously had no friends, no family, no one to listen to him go on about his life.

He was so alone, just like her.

She tried to interject some light into his bleak outlook, "It looks like he won't be a problem anymore." She commented, looking down at the newspaper and seeing Jerome's planned incarceration at Arkham Asylum. "You can move on with your life."

"That's what he would want me to think," Jeremiah corrected. He added with a strained voice, "You don't know him like I do. He doesn't think like you or me—he doesn't give up. He'll find a way to get to me, and when he does, he'll kill me just like our mother."

"That's paranoia talking," She shook her head. "Arkham is incredibly secure. He's not getting out of there anytime soon."

"He'll find a way out; then, he'll find me."

"Come on, listen to yourself," She insisted, letting some of her basic psychology training into her tone. "You sound paranoid. Obviously, her death is getting to you; it's only natural to think that you could be next. In a few weeks, you'll see that he'll still be in Arkham, and you'll still be alive."

"He plays the long game," Jeremiah ruffled his typically taut hair in frustration. "It's impossible to explain, but I know he's thinking about it."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because it's exactly what I would do." Jeremiah shook his head. "I'd play the long game. I'd wait it out, gain confidence with the guards and control of the inmates, plot an escape, throw them off my scent with some other disaster, and find the remaining family members who share my blood."

She paused for a moment before reassuring, "Sounds like you're projecting."

"I've been around him so long that I know this is what he's going to do," Jeremiah sighed. "I guess this is what people talk about when they mention twin ESP. Even though I haven't talked to him in years, I still can imagine how his senseless thought process would work."

"But you have to realize that it's irrational," She shook her head.

"It's not," Jeremiah hissed suddenly, "and I'm running out of people to believe me." He looked at her pleadingly. "I can do a lot more than fix a music player," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a square. He unfolded it to reveal a blueprint to a device.

"What's this?" She asked as she scanned the designs. "Is it a generator?"

"It's a lot more than just a generator," He insisted and quickly tucked the blueprint back into his pocket. "I know I can make a difference; I feel it in my blood. I want to invent. I want to create a better world, but I don't think I can ever achieve it if he kills me or if I can't leave my study. I'm at my wit's end looking for people that I can possibly trust." He shook his head. "You were the last person that I had researched for a background check. After this, there's no one else I can turn to."

"I have some referrals," She said. "I'm sure there is someone willing to take you up."

"I already went through everyone in Gotham," He shook his head. "None of them will do. I've looked at the most promising candidates that haven't had an arrest warrant over their head. They're just potential moles for Jerome. He could control them. They could figure out what I'm doing, ransom me off or send me to be the engineer to one of these gangs to make guns or other weapons of destruction. I don't have anyone. . . Unless." He glanced back at her.

"Me?" She asked. "You already got your answer."

"I know, but," He sighed. "I—I don't think I can trust anyone else."

"Jeremiah," She sighed as he looked more and more rattled by the moment.

"Please, I need you," Jeremiah admitted quickly. He looked up at her with pleading eyes; his voice was broken. Her heart ached as she saw his desperation.

She paused for a moment, finally considering his proposal. What could it hurt to become his bodyguard? At first, it had been his personality that had deterred her. That had quickly evaporated with his sudden turn. Now she was looking at an unfortunate, lonely man looking for company and an employee. She felt like she had gotten to intimately know him over the—she glanced at the clock—two hours he had been miserably retelling his life story. There was nothing that should deter her from helping. She had no other responsibility. Her mother was gone; her father was non-existent. It wasn't like she was fond of her job anyway; it wasn't like she had any plans. It couldn't hurt her to help this poor man.

There was another nagging feeling that drew her in. She had always felt called to the field of psychology, but she never knew what would have come from it other than a paycheck. Now, she saw an opportunity, a way to apply herself to the world. She would be the sole council to a genius. If he were left alone, his nervousness would destroy him. The world wouldn't understand him like so many geniuses before. She could facilitate his ability to change the world. She saw an opportunity for something great on the horizon. She would never be given this chance again. He needed her. Maybe she could help him. If not, she could always back out.

"Ok," She nodded a little. "I bet I can do that."

A look of delight and relief crossed his face, "Oh, thank you, Ecco."

"Ecco?" She questioned the strange name that he had allocated to her.

He straightened, "Yes, for safety purposes, I think that it would be best to use a code name. You're not the first proxy I've employed, so it went Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, and now Ecco." He shrugged shyly. "I hope you don't mind."

"Alright then," she smiled a little. "Then I guess I'll be your Ecco."

* * *

And that was that. Ecco became bound to Jeremiah in a way that she could only explain as love. Through years of dedication, spending time with him, learning his habits and thoughts until they were almost her own, she had come to love him. She'd given up her degree as her job became more and more demanding. She convinced herself that Jeremiah was the most important thing in her life, that he was the end goal to all of her life—a white picket fence sort of fantasy. She had once even let it slip to him (in the form of a stoic "I'll dedicate my life to you"), and he had always seemed somewhat interested. She had been absolutely enthralled when he had kissed her, and equally as destroyed when he pointed the gun at her head.

It didn't matter.

Everything she sacrificed for him was gone. The way he had looked at her with blank, unemotional eyes as he even thought about ending her destroyed her very being. She was nothing to him in those moments.

She had failed him. She was a failure.

That was all she was to him.

Suddenly, there was a soft sound. If Ecco hadn't been absolutely silent, she would have definitely missed it. Glass cracked under footfall, and then there was silence. One person sneaking up on her. She huffed; at least, she had something to take her anger out on.

"Go away!" She allowed the handgun to lazily drift in the direction of the door. She squeezed off a shot into the ceiling as a warning. The sound stopped for a moment, but footsteps quickly approached her. She found herself sitting up; she turned her emotional scowl onto the newcomer. "Do you want a bullet in the brain?"

She aimed it at the newcomer but jolted as she recognized the person. Wayne was standing there. Even through the darkness, she could tell it was him.

"Tell me where he is," Bruce's voice was level, almost dangerous.

Ecco scoffed, she was no longer concerned with keeping up the emotionless persona she put on when he was normally around, "Keep it up, and you could sound threatening."

"This isn't a game, Ecco," Bruce growled; she had never seen him so angry. "Tell me where he is."

Ecco suddenly started to take him seriously. She slid her way off of the bar and made her way behind it. His black outfit and the darkness outside made it hard to see what kind of weapon he was holding. It would have been insane for him to come out into the streets without a weapon.

"Why do you think I would tell you that?" She continued along the bar, keeping an eye on him. She knew the second she looked away; she could be in danger.

"You can obviously see how demented he is; he needs to go down."

She thought for a moment and nodded slowly, "True."

"Then tell me where I can find him."

She paused for a moment as her lip thinned. "You know, call me crazy, but no," Ecco shook her head. "See, as much as I kind of hate him right now, I just don't think I can. I've put too much time into him; I'm not going to see years of dedication go to waste."

A dark expression crossed his face, again, Ecco had thought that he couldn't look angrier, "Ecco, if you don't tell me where he is, I'll—"

"What? Kill me?" Ecco demanded.

Bruce was silent, but his deadly expression didn't leave. Despite the lack of an answer, Ecco was confident that he wouldn't kill her.

Ecco pulled up the gun and pointed it at him, "I most certainly will kill you. Did you think about that when you came here? I  _have_  killed, Bruce. I killed for him. I killed some innocent people. Probably had a hand in killing a whole lot more with this whole lockdown we're having, but," she lowered the gun and shook her head, "I didn't kill enough. I failed him. Now, I'm here."

Bruce paused for a moment as she glanced down at her gun.

"He is psychotic. He needs to go down!"

"What's your plan?" Ecco shook her head as she rounded to the front of the bar. "Are you going to kill him? Because that does not sound like you. You couldn't even kill that psychopath Jerome. You aren't a killer; I see that. It takes a killer to know one, and you ain't it." She paused for a moment to let it sink in. "Are you going to lock him up in the GCPD? Because that is not going to work. Those madmen follow him like a swarm of locusts. Someone will break him out, and a lot of innocent people will die."

Bruce was silent. If what Ecco was saying was true, then she definitely wasn't in Jeremiah's good graces. Bruce knew from Gordon that she had a hand in attempting to kill him, so she couldn't be treated as an innocent party. It didn't seem logical for Jeremiah to simply abandon one of his most valued pawns. Bruce didn't buy it. She was just holding back. She had to know something.

"Tell me what you know, or only one of us is walking out of here."

"Stop it with the tough guy act. You didn't even have the balls to shoot the man who murdered your parents." Bruce looked at Ecco skeptically. "Oh, yeah, Jeremiah told me everything about your conversations. He used to tell me everything. We used to be so close, confide in each other. I was the only person in his life before you stumbled in and destroyed our system. I don't know why he trusted you. You're magnetic to him, a fascination after you charmed him with your words. I don't know what lines you were feeding him, but he stopped trusting me. Suddenly, you were all he would talk about. Bruce this, Bruce that!" She held up her gun again. "Maybe I should just get rid of you; then there'll be no competition."

Bruce tensed, ready to move, but she lowered the gun.

"He'd never forgive me," She huffed. "That's the worst part. Little Bruce is just too special to kill off."

"Ecco, listen to yourself," Bruce shook his head. "This doesn't sound like you. Think about what he's made you do, what Jeremiah is doing now. He's using your feeling for him against you."

"It's easy to cast him as the bad guy, isn't it," Ecco retorted. "Really, the problem is this whole damn city, his brother, everyone who ever looked down on him. Now they look at him with disgust. I can't blame them because they can't see who I see. You weren't there!" Ecco sighed. "No one was. Did you see him at his worst? Did you comfort him when he went through one of his multiple mental breakdowns because of Jerome? Did you bring him back from his darkest paranoid fantasies? Did you ever see him cry? Did you watch him pitifully weep into your shoulder, knowing that you're the only one who even cares that he exists!" She grew angrier with each word.

Bruce felt her frustration and care towards Jeremiah, but he dismissed it quickly, "If there was something there, it's gone now along with whatever good was in Jeremiah," Bruce shook his head. "You were a pawn, Ecco."

"At least I was  _his_  pawn," Ecco retorted.

Bruce stilled, a look of disbelief crossed his expression, "Ecco, you don't believe he actually loves you, do you?"

The words ran through her mind. She had always hoped that Jeremiah felt something similar to what she did, but she always thought that he was hiding it. After his transformation, he had receded into a shell of cold, calculating genius. She knew it was the real him, but she still couldn't shake a feeling of mistrust or even resentment towards her. He had held her, kissed her, but she knew that it could have all been an act—she wasn't blind to the realities. But, love or not, sane or not, Jeremiah or not, did it even matter?

"I don't care." Ecco paused for a moment to allow the words to sink in. "I don't care if he does or he doesn't. I don't care if he is insane. I don't even care if he's capable of love. All I know is that he is the one person in the world who means anything to me, and that is enough." She swallowed. "Isn't that enough for anyone?"

Bruce was silent yet again.

"That does sound crazy, doesn't it," Ecco admitted with a small laugh. "But, there is such a term as 'Madly in Love' isn't there."

In the low light, she could see his expression change. She thought it was another pang of anger that entered his eyes, but she was mistaken. No, there was something like pity in them. She found her teeth grind against each other. He couldn't possibly understand how she felt. He had wealth, friends, family, a lover; he couldn't understand her or Jeremiah's situation. He only saw what he wanted to see. He couldn't see how much she loved him.

"Get out," She growled and pulled the gun up to aim at him again.

He didn't move; the expression faded into a stone-cold look. Ecco rested her finger on the trigger. They stood there for a moment in the silent standoff.

Bruce thought about bringing her in. She could be a valuable source on Jeremiah, even if she didn't know his location. However, it didn't seem feasible; she was in love with Jeremiah—a feat that made Bruce sick to his stomach. She had to be out of her mind to still love that maniac. He didn't know if he would be putting more people in danger by keeping Jeremiah's chief lieutenant in the GCPD. Despite that, he couldn't guarantee that she would just let him leave. For all he knew, this was another masterful deception by Jeremiah. Just another way she could track Bruce further. Even if it wasn't, he didn't know her well enough to know whether she would get an impulse and shoot him in the back.

Bruce took a step forward, "Ecco—"

"Damn it, Bruce, I will shoot!" Then she stopped for a moment. Why was she sending him away? This was her bargaining chip back into Jeremiah's good graces. "Wait," She inched closer, a small smile crept on her face. "Should have taken your chance, Wayne boy. Come on; I'll take you to Jeremiah."

Ecco advanced at Bruce. She swung at his head with the butt of the gun. She removed her finger from the trigger to keep it from misfiring. She couldn't risk killing Bruce. However, Bruce dodged effortlessly. He countered with a push kick to her chest. She recovered for a moment with a bit of shock evident in her eyes. She punched at him with her gun-less hand, but Bruce caught it. She swung again with her gun hand, but he grabbed her at the wrist and pulled her close. He twisted her hand so that the gun fell to the floor. Ecco winced and slammed her skull into his. Bruce released, stumbled backward with a grunt of surprise, and blinked away the pain. He was stunned for a moment.

Ecco felt a little bit of excitement brew up in her. She knew that Bruce was supposed to be a talented fighter; she just didn't think he would be this good. This was turning out to be a fun experience.

Ecco ran at him again, kicking off the bar and using the leverage for a punch. He regained enough focus to block it, though there was a twinge of pain in his expression. Bruce swung his arm. Ecco grabbed his fist, stepped inward, and threw him over her shoulder. Bruce landed squarely on his back.

"Come on, Bruce," Ecco hummed. "Just give up already. You want to meet Jeremiah, right? Just come on in with me."

Bruce rolled himself over. He couldn't be Jeremiah's prisoner. How many more would die trying to save him? Jeremiah would surely use him for some sick, twisted plot. He couldn't selfishly allow himself to become captured. He couldn't be useless. An instinct to escape compelled him. He panicked.

There was a  _click_. The gun rested in his hand as he pulled himself up. Bruce's breath was shallow. Ecco paused as the barrel pointed at her chest. Bruce's brow furrowed. Despite the deadly situation Ecco found herself in, she felt a grin cross her face.

"What, finally manning up?" Ecco taunted with a look of insane confidence. "Come on, rich boy! Don't just hold it all threating like. Do it!" Her eyes saddened for a moment, "Not like I've got a lot left anyway."

Bruce suddenly lowered the gun. Ecco looked a little confused at the sudden mercy shown, but that was overshadowed by her need to prove herself to Jeremiah. She let out a roar and advanced. Bruce's foot connected with Ecco's jaw, and she was sent sprawling into the bar. Ecco's head slammed into the counter. She blacked out.

* * *

Bruce looked at his trembling gun hand. He felt sick. Had he really sunk so low? Even if he used it as a distraction, he was only that much closer to pulling the trigger. His vengeful hunt for Jeremiah was making him ruthless to even those who didn't deserve it. Ecco might have been Jeremiah's right hand, but that was only because of her delusion. She didn't deserve to die for him. He emptied the chamber, unloaded the cartridge, and tossed it away.

Bruce quickly retreated to the green zone. The sky was lightening as the morning arrived, but he knew he wouldn't see sunlight for a couple of hours due to the height of the buildings. Frustratingly, he had to leave Ecco behind. Bruce knew that he couldn't carry her back to the green zone and be as stealthy as he needed to be, but that didn't mean that he left her lying unconscious on the floor. He had quickly moved her to behind the bar and elevated her feet. Then, he covered her with a tarp to hide her from potential dangers. He couldn't allow her to die because of his actions. She might have been insane to even follow that psychopath, but she was still human. She still had some semblance of logic to her.

Bruce was now exhausted. The rage that had been fueling his expedition vanished as his head nodded, and eyes drooped. He just wanted to be back at Selina's side. The strain of the night had drained him.

Ecco's words were spinning around his head. She was right. He couldn't take Jeremiah back to the GCPD building, at least, not at the moment. The GCPD had enough problems on their hands, with the masses of refugees cluttering their hallways and spare offices. He couldn't kill Jeremiah either. Ecco was right. He wasn't a killer. Bruce knew that he would have the will to do it until he was in Jeremiah's presence. Then his conscience, whether he wanted it to or not, would never permit him to go down that road. He knew that. He'd find some humanity in him to excuse his actions. He was hopeless yet again. The sense of uselessness settled back on his shoulders. He was just one man, and, in age, barely a man at that. What could one man do that an army couldn't?

He made his way back to the hospital. The newly established border guards were a little surprised to see him but let him in without second hesitation. His walk through the early hours of the green zone only accentuated his guilt. He failed yet again to find a credible lead to Jeremiah's whereabouts. He shook his head; he just wanted to go back to Selina's side and sleep. When he got to her room, he saw that the lights were turned on.

She was awake. Bruce's heart seized, and he froze in the doorway. He thought about turning around and leaving, but a nurse spotted him and beckoned him over. Bruce took a step into the room and found his feet carrying him over to the small group of doctors and nurses. Alfred, who was among the crowd, looked up as he trudged in.

"Bruce?" Alfred looked him over, noting a new bruise on his forehead. "Where have you been? I was looking—"

"I'm ok," He muttered expressionless as he stared towards the bed. The butler took the cue and backed off.

She was lying flat on her back. Her eyes looked lazily at the doctor, who was finishing up his explanation. A trembling frown was present on her face. When she noticed Bruce, she turned her head to look at him. He almost winced; the sharp, playful intelligence that always seemed to be in her eyes had been replaced with an indescribable sadness. Bruce approached cautiously. Parts of his dream sped into his mind. He could imagine that, at any moment, she could flash into a rage and call him out for all of his mistakes, hesitations, and naively misplaced trust. He felt like he would have deserved it.

"Hey," Selina spoke as he walked up to her. Her face was weathered and grim. She was obviously aware of the situation. She was quiet for a moment as Bruce stood there. "This sucks," She sighed bitterly as tears pricked her eyes. "Like a lot."

Bruce didn't respond. He looked like he was waiting for her to say something. He almost wanted her to start berating him. At least there wouldn't be the tense silence. She furrowed her brow as he shifted without knowing what to say.

He decided to break the silence, "Selina, I'm so sorry. If I hadn't hesitated—"

"I'm going to punch you if you make this about you when I'm the one that's crippled," Bruce looked up to see her actively scowling at him. "I'm going to get out of this stupid bed, onto my cripple ass legs, and punch you in your nose for even thinking that it's your fault. Jesus, Bruce, the world doesn't revolve around you and your stupid ego. That bastard is the one who pulled the trigger. I'm going to be damned if you're going to take the blame—"

She was shushed when Bruce knelt beside her, put an arm over her shoulders, and buried his face into her neck in a half hug. The nurses surrounding her went to protest, but Selina waved them off. There was a bit of peace between them before Selina put an arm around him in acceptance.

"I forgive you, ok?" She almost seemed to read his mind. "I hesitated too. I hesitated that night with your parents. I didn't do anything. We can't prevent everything. But—" she allowed a bit of a dark, saddened chuckle into her voice, "Damnit, I told you so." He didn't release his grip from around her. Suddenly, his shoulders heaved. Selina sighed, "Bruce. Don't cry."

* * *

When Jeremiah stepped his way into the bar, his nose wrinkled with disgust. The establishment was in a state of complete disrepair. He wouldn't have come if he hadn't known that she was there. It was a trip down memory lane, one that he decided to stuff away; he couldn't allow himself to become sentimental. However, when he saw the jukebox in the corner, he couldn't help himself but plug it in. A soft tune played through the speaker.

A small smile crept onto his face. It still worked just like everything he built.

There was a soft groan, and Jeremiah spun around. In an instant, he flicked out a small revolver and scanned the room. No one. The smile faded. Jeremiah glanced up and down the bar. She wasn't there. He frowned a little but went to investigate further.

After a few seconds of searching, he found her placed delicately on the floor behind the bar. She was clearly hidden from view to keep away murder-happy psychopaths. He tucked away the gun and took a moment to wake her.

"Ecco?" Jeremiah asked as he nudged the unconscious figure on the floor. "Ecco." He hoped she wasn't dead. That would put a damper on his plans, and he would have to find a new lieutenant. To his delight and relief, she slowly started to rouse from her stupor and pushed herself off the floor.

"Jeremiah?" She asked bewildered as she clutched her head.

"Were you expecting someone else?" He asked, almost annoyed.

"Jeremiah," Ecco muttered as she lifted herself up into a sitting position. "How did you find me?"

He offered her a hand, and she took it. When she did, she felt the stickiness of drying blood on his gloved hand.

Jeremiah simply smiled, "You don't want to know. What are you doing on the floor?" His voice was tinged with childish condescension as he pulled her up. "We need to return to the hideout, and this place is not necessarily a hideout."

"But," Ecco sputtered. "You—I thought you fired me."

Jeremiah blinked dumbly as if trying to remember, "Oh, that? I was a little stressed. Water under the blown-up bridges. I need your deadly expertise, my dear Ecco." He gestured for her to follow him.

"Wait," Ecco called, not moving from her spot.

"Ecco," Jeremiah said with a hint of annoyance. "We are in a literal warzone. I do not plan on disappointing my audience by getting shot for no reason. Why are you insisting that I wait a second more?"

Ecco shifted a bit, "Do you remember this place?"

"Sure. Looks better now than it did then," He glanced around at the blown-out windows and bloody floors for a moment, the apathy was evident in his eyes. He spun around to face the door. "Now come along."

"You remember that I was rather reluctant to follow you," he stopped as she spoke again.

"I'm getting  _déjà vu_ ," Jeremiah nodded curtly.

"Well," she said softly. "I wasn't convinced until you said a very particular phrase. It showed me how much that you needed someone at your side, how you couldn't do it alone, and how you would have appreciated my help."

He decided to get it out of her, "What are you getting at?"

"Say that you," Ecco paused for a long moment, "need me."

Jeremiah paused as a strange expression crossed his face, "Need you?"

Ecco simply nodded and diverted her eyes to the floor, "Like you used to. I need to know that you need me. That's how I know it's for real—that you won't fire me again. I need to know that I matter to you."

Jeremiah was silent and still for a moment as he scanned her face. He pulled a hand up to cover his face as a deep-set frown crossed it. Jeremiah sighed; he didn't have time to deal with emotions. He needed to get her back to his base to formulate the next part of his plan. He glanced at her through his gloved fingers. She was useful—whatever part of his old self that was still there begged to bring her along.

Ecco suddenly felt strong hands clamp onto her shoulders. She looked up to see Jeremiah looking at her with sincerity. He chuckled a little.

"Ecco, my girl," He beamed at her. "Of course, I need you."

A small, girlish smile crossed her face; she wanted to believe him, "Ok."

Jeremiah turned around and rolled his eyes. "Now come along."

Jeremiah stepped out the door with Ecco in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while. Hopefully, I can make up for my absence with a super long chapter. I'll try and update when I have the time, but things are kind of busy right now. I plan on finishing this story by New years though, so hopefully, I can live up to that goal.
> 
> *SPOILERS FOR SEASON 5 FINALE AHEAD (Just in case)*
> 
> So yes, I am going to treat Ecco as basically Harley Quinn. It was kind of my intention when I started writing, and I sort of expected it as a reveal in the show. Despite the show's contrary depiction, I'm going to keep on the track that I started out on. I was disappointed when she was killed. I know that they were trying to leave open a spot open for the real Harley to come in, but since the show stopped right there, it seemed like a waste to kill her off. I liked the idea of a Harley Quinn who knew the Joker before he was the Joker; it might have provided a little more character insight. I thought since they had such a different Joker origin, having an HQ with such a different origin would work nicely alongside him.
> 
> Eh, c'est la vie. This is why fanfiction exists.
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments, subs, and kudos! (And for dealing with my inconsistent posting speed.)


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